Tag: Interviews
Candela Capitán and Paul McCarthy
Where Does a Body End
What happens when a person becomes a product? Legendary performer Paul McCarthy and new-media heroine Candela Capitán come together to dissect their work—through a series of detours on Instagram addiction, endless spinning, streaming, TikTok aesthetics., abjection, and the shifting role of irony in art and life.
Candela Capitan Do you remember I called you once?
Paul McCarthy Sure, I remember, you wanted to come here –and I said: “Yeah, sure, if you want to come, come!” Where are you now?
CC I’m in Barcelona!
PMC I think my favorite city is Barcelona—though maybe Berlin is up there too. I really love Barcelona. I was actually supposed to work on a theater piece there. It was planned to take place in both Barcelona and Madrid, but it ended up falling through. We were working on a project called A&E, Adolf & Eva, Adam & Eve and were so sure it was going to happen. It felt like everything was in motion, but then, last year, it all just collapsed. Nothing came of it. There are still some conversations happening—phone calls back and forth—but these things take so long. Once something falls apart and stays dormant for six months or more, you start to wonder if it’ll ever come back.
CC It’s so difficult to get projects approved in Spain..
PMC And it’s always a little bit painful when something doesn’t go through, who knows, maybe we’ll manage to do it.
CC Regardless, It’s such a pleasure for me to be speaking with you! I’m a huge fan. I come from the world of choreography, but I’m deeply connected to performance art. My work draws from movement, blending elements of choreography with aspects of performance. I think that’s part of why I’m so drawn to your work – I feel like we share some common ground.
PMC I actually know of your work through Instagram. It’s interesting – with Instagram, you end up following so many people. I’ll admit, I’m a bit addicted to it, but I find myself connecting with certain types of imagery or ideas that stand out. I think I probably started following you because something in your work felt familiar or resonated with me. I was reflecting on that recently. I have some close friends who are dancers and choreographers – some are part of troupes, while others collaborate with different groups. In performance, there’s often this natural overlap with musicians, actors, or other dancers. The lines between disciplines start to blur. A good friend of mine is Simone Forti, and with her, those lines are completely blurred. As a dancer and artist, her connections with musicians and visual artists have always been significant. Simone is often considered a dancer, but she’s had a major influence on artists across different fields. Dan Graham once told me she was a key influence on many minimalists like Robert Morris – maybe not Donald Judd, that might be a stretch – but definitely Morris, and artists like Charlemagne Palestine in the 70s. I remember seeing your piece where you keep rolling, and it made me think about repetition – the endurance of it, and how repeating something over and over carries its own weight. There’s a sense of irony in that too. I think repeating an action or a word or a sentence over and over for an extended period of time, for the viewer or the performer, it can become ironic or absurd. When I think about your work, I find myself wondering – how do you think about irony? Maybe that’s the first question. How do you approach irony in your work? In mine, I often turn a situation upside down. That gesture, I think, is a layer over a deeper subject or issue. I think repetition can also bring something up, something deeper.
CC I think my work might have less irony, or at least it feels that way. I see my performances as more serious – maybe because I tend to confront myself in ways that feel heavier. I’m not sure. It’s not necessarily political in a direct sense, but more about how I construct my pieces. That said, irony plays a big role in how I build movement. Without it, I feel like something is missing. For me, it’s a bit like that – if my work doesn’t have a sense of the uncanny, it doesn’t feel as interesting or engaging, at least for myself. I don’t know. I work a lot with the internet and how our generation’s imagination is shaped by it – how everything now revolves around social media and the way we absorb so much from being online. For me, that imaginary world isn’t entirely serious, and I feel like irony naturally becomes part of it. My work reflects that – there’s irony in the way I engage with this digital space. I was actually thinking about something else before this. How do you see our generation now? You’ve always worked with devices, screens, and technology, and I feel like I’m exploring similar ideas, but in the context of a generation that’s hyper-connected through platforms and social media. I’m curious – how do you feel about that now? How do you connect with this shift?
PMC I think, in some ways, it goes back a long time for me – to the 60s and 70s – when mediums/genres were starting to blur. There was this merging of dance, theater, music, film, art, painting, and drawing. I was lucky to be in a radical school at that time, but I was also actively seeking out the edges of things. Even from an early age, I felt like I was trying to leave something behind or break away from it. I wanted to make work using tape recorders, cameras, the motion picture, film. By the late 60s, I was already drawn to video because it offered something new. You could record for long periods, integrate sound, and immediately see what you were recording, see yourself on a monitor. At that time for me, all genres felt radical – painting, sculpture, drawing, dance, film, poetry. I was interested in minimalism, experimental film, performance, and happenings. It all converged. I did paintings flat on the ground as an action in the studio, without an audience, performance actions. I remember once, in 1967, I was assigned to make a kinetic sculpture in school, and I jumped out of a window – inspired by Yves Klein. That relationship between the body, sculpture, and action has stayed with me. Over the last 15 years, I’ve become deeply involved in video – recording, editing, collaborating. I write scripts that allow for improvisation, with key blocking moments but room to explore between. Sometimes we record for days, accumulating material that then traps me in the editing process. To answer your question about social media – I was interested but slow to engage with it directly. I never made a website or actively posted, though I followed what others were doing. Streaming fascinated me, but I felt too immersed in my ongoing projects to shift focus. The same happened with virtual reality – I was curious but hesitant, until someone asked me to create something, and I ended up making 30 VR pieces. Now, I’m obsessed with AI and work with it daily. Sometimes interests simmer until the right moment arises. Today, I’m performing, doing an action live and altering the recorded image through AI and then streaming the action through social media. I recognize the importance of social media and digital platforms – it’s not a lack of interest in what it is, but more about time and priorities. I don’t know where this dabbling in AI will end up.
CC What about galleries? Would you say their role, or importance, changed over time?
PMC I think possibly galleries are becoming obsolete. I think also in some cases, galleries are being run by people who are out of touch or placating collectors who don’t realize what is done, expressed, or formed by artists. I feel like there’s something happening that the art world isn’t fully recognizing. They’re not really interested in engaging with it creatively. During COVID, for example, galleries suddenly realized they needed to do online exhibitions. So they just hired people with technical skills – people who didn’t really get what artists are about. It became, “Give us the material, and we’ll handle it.” But artists struggle with mediums – we fuck with them, break them, and rebuild. That’s part of the process. So yes, I’m interested in how social media intersects with art.
CC I’m not really interested in AI. I’m not sure why – maybe I’ll understand it one day, but for now, it feels too digital to me. I love talking about streaming, how we connect with others through Instagram, and what’s happening on the internet. But I don’t feel very connected to digital imagery. I don’t know why.
PMC AI to me feels like a massive iceberg that we haven’t even hit yet. When I first interacted with AI images, it felt almost like a revelation – the fascination was immediate. I don’t think of it as a tool I need to train or control. I view AI more as a collaborator, and I’m not interested in the process of training it. Maybe I am training it, but that’s not my focus. What interests me is the layers, the speed, and the unpredictability of the images, the hallucination, or dreaming it produces. I’m not interested in the slick AI images, I’m more interested in distortion, blurred images. As an image maker, this speed and layering are compelling to me. A lot of my performance work is centered around creating an image, whether that’s a visual or a conceptual one – the making of an image and the effect on me being in it. Primarily it’s about the persona, entering another world. I think how I interact with AI is similar to painting and drawing. There’s a connection between drawing, painting, and how I engage with AI. Both are about creating something that evolves. The process is similar – I give it something, a prompt, an idea or a live or recorded input, and then I watch how it takes shape. There’s something in that, like watching a painting come to life, seeing the layers unfold.
CC And what about streaming, where does your interest lay in that?
PMC I’ve been really interested in that for a while now – not just in the traditional art world sense, but in how individuals, who aren’t necessarily part of the art scene, are using streaming platforms. These streamers can engage with thousands of people, creating a phenomenon that’s beyond anything we’ve seen in the art world. It’s a different kind of interaction, a new way of reaching a huge audience that doesn’t follow the traditional art world or tv and film world structures.
CC I work a lot with social media and streaming, but I’m always more focused on how these contexts are affecting my generation. I think that’s part of why I don’t connect with AI – I don’t think of my work as an image. I’ve never seen it that way, and I’m only realizing it now. Maybe it’s because I don’t create traditional paintings. I do work with visuals, but not in that final, static sense. I’ve always thought in terms of movement or action. I’m more connected with the action itself, the process, rather than just the image. I think a lot about how streaming is changing the way my generation lives. I even did a performance about this, looking at a sexual streaming platform called Chaturbate. Now I’m working on a project that focuses on the massive buildings in Asia where influencers and digital creators live and work. These huge complexes house rooms for influencers to do production, often at a very young age, and under intense pressure to produce constant content for platforms like TikTok. It’s like a hyper-production machine. They’re doing it all day long, creating content, doing advertising, and living under this very high-stakes, commercial environment.
PMC I think, you know, when it comes to mediums like streaming or AI, they’re just forms, extensions of something bigger. I’ve always been interested in video, film, and cameras, and in a way, streaming and AI are just natural extensions of that. I was drawn to media, especially film in the early 60s.
For me, performance is the core of it. The small drawings I make aren’t just images—they’re scripts. They’re a series, not singular. There could be 20 or 30 drawings in a series. They’re about what I imagine I’m doing or doing with others. The action, the performance, is the critical element, the core is always the performance. That’s what I care about the most.
I’m interested in streaming, I’m interested in video. I stopped performing in front of people in the early 80s and only did it in front of a camera. But now I’ve started performing in front of people again.
CC What made you come back to performing?
PMC I began performing and creating work with an actress and artist, Lilith Stangenberg, who’s deeply involved in theater and film. That led me into theater performance, which was something I had never done before. I wasn’t initially interested in it. Part of it was a rejection of what I thought of as traditional theater, the stage, the position of the audience. I was more drawn to the idea of performances, actions, happenings, taking place anywhere—whether in someone’s bedroom or on the street. A lot of the time, projects, work, happen because of an opportunity or coincidence, and then you dive in. That’s what happened with theatre for me. It wasn’t something I planned.
CC And why did you stop?
PMC I did it performances from 1967 to 1983. It was all within the context of the art world or the alternative art world. I did a performance in a gallery sometime in the 70s, but mostly it was in alternative spaces or my studio, or someone else’s studio. In the 80s, the art world started to change, and so did the alternative spaces. They became more like cabaret environments, where stages were built, rooms were painted black, and lights were set up. It changed performance art. It became more about entertainment performance. Many artists involved in performance in the 70s at that point checked out for different reasons. Some went off to explore other parts of life or moved to places like South America. The world was changing, and my interest started to shift too. I wasn’t as interested in performing for an audience anymore. Early on, I made work in a studio without an audience, just using a camera. I found myself going back to that original way of working—performing in front of a camera rather than an audience. I didn’t feel like I needed an audience. But now, over the past few years, and especially since 2019, I’ve been more interested in performing in front of an audience. Lilith and I did about 100 performances, ranging from two to four hours long, but only 15 of them were in front of an audience. The camera still played a central role, but I’m now more interested in engaging with an audience. Most of what I’ve done with Lilith has been done in constructed set-architectures that we’ve built, in nature, or existing buildings/houses, and always in front of cameras.
CC Now you can do it in front of a camera, but without an audience.
PMC I was thinking about your work in relation to these actions that are repetitive. There’s something about the process of standing up, rolling, then standing up and rolling again, and doing it repeatedly. What is happening within yourself, How long do you do it? I’ve made similar pieces where I’d spin for an hour. With these repetitive actions, there’s a connection or empathy that builds between the audience and the performer. It becomes a physical or emotional experience for them both.
CC What? I don’t remember this piece?
PMC Well, it’s similar to your continuous rolling piece. I spin standing up for an extended period of time, sometimes holding the camera. I did it a number of times. But when you’re rolling over and over again, do you get dizzy? Do you do it because of that sensation, dizziness, or is it about something else?
CC If you roll like i do, not spin, you don’t get dizzy. You just get super tired.
PMC It’s related to being exhausted. I know a number of actors, that before they start to perform, they spin. I do and Lilith does.
CC I do too. It’s a proper ritual.
PMC I think it’s a transition. It’s like you’re preparing for something. That spinning creates this kind of delirium, a shift—like when you stop, you’re not in the same place you were when you began. It’s a way to enter another world, a world of action, a world of performance. It’s a process of starting something new. In these A&E pieces we’ve done, Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun drank champagne in the bunker, and it seemed fitting to us that as part of the work, the performance, we should drink champagne. For me, in this case, drinking became a connection to spinning. Alcohol, in a way, loosens the brain, helps to enter a different headspace. I would drink throughout the performance, and there were times when I was quite drunk. It became a ritual, entering the next phase, the next world – a transformative one. It’s about leaving this world behind, shaking it off, and entering another space entirely. That’s what the spinning and drinking do—they prepare you to transition. I do think at times though, the drinking made me stupid, a true lush, a drunk.
CC My practice has a lot of that too, but maybe not exactly rolling like this. I think what I do is put my dancers—or myself—into this in-between world, this bridge world. It’s about preparing to enter another space, another reality. It’s that same kind of transition, that same ritual of moving from one world to another, whether it’s through action, movement, or setting up the right conditions for a shift. It’s about creating that moment of transformation, where you’re not quite in one place anymore, but not yet fully in the next. It’s that preparation, that threshold, where the work really begins.
PMC Do you usually work with the same dancers?
CC I work with six dancers, generally, but It depends on the specific action required or the type of performance. Some dancers are more comfortable with certain movements, while others aren’t. For the performance you mentioned earlier, The Death at The Club, some dancers were willing to stay on the floor for 40 minutes, and others were not. There’s that balance between what they want to do and what the performance requires. The rules I set are flexible—dancers always want to perform perfectly, they want to push themselves, but they also know their limits. For me, the idea of working with different types of dancers or bodies is intriguing. It’s less about perfect technique and more about the expression of movement and action, and how bodies respond to these rituals and transitions. It’s about pushing boundaries and seeing how different kinds of bodies engage with that process.
PMC Did you rehearse for this one?
CC No, no rehearsal. We just did it.
PMC So, when do you rehearse something?
CC For example, have you seen my piece with five dancers in pink? Yeah, for that one, the choreography is like a score. It has 17 figures, and the choreography is also written out. For that, I need to rehearse because they all perform the same movements, and I rehearse for months.
PMC Do you rehearse for months as a group or individually, or both, perhaps?
CC First, I always follow the same structure where I spend about one and a half to two years working on a project, but the project has different timings. Initially, I do a small piece with myself, a performance with just me, and then I do a second performance with the same concept but for a larger scenario. So in each project, there are two performances: one that I do alone, where I’m in the studio by myself, and then I invite more people to join.
PMC Once a performance is completed, does it become a piece that you can perform at different locations?
CC Yeah, I finalize the project, and then I move it. I think I’m always doing the same—I don’t like to change my projects. I move them like a dance company would.
PMC That is something that exists more in dance, in music, and in theater. But you don’t see it as often in performance art. The idea of creating a piece and repeating it in different locations isn’t as common. In performance art, you usually do it once—maybe twice or three times—and that’s it. In my case, the subject or character carries through. For example, I had a piece where I played a sea captain. I performed it four times, but it changed each time. It was never the same, but each time I was still that sea captain. It’s similar to shooting a film. If you film over 30 days, you’re that character for 30 days, but the actions shift as the narrative progresses. In A&E, Adolf and Eva’s performances would change based on the scenario. One time, they’re on a picnic; another time, they’re coming home after dinner. But certain actions were repeated in every performance. Those repetitions were rituals, their way of being. The surroundings and context would shift, repetition became critical, and I realized how much that reflects daily life. Every morning, I have coffee. The day changes, but the coffee is constant. These repetitions are part of life. I see that in my work too—there’s a similarity, a thread that carries through. I repeat it because it feels like I’ve found something I need to continue exploring. I’ve noticed that some elements in my work never seem to end. They’re internal, personal things that I keep coming back to.
CC I love when someone repeats the same thing over and over, but each time with a different perspective. It’s like they’re driven by these obsessions, you know? They keep exploring the same idea forever, but actually not quite.
PMC I can see things I’m doing now that trace back to 40 years ago. Even though a lot has changed and evolved, certain themes persist. I remember reading a while back about the death drive. This idea that certain traumas stay with you forever, certain issues you just keep repeating and repeating. The nature of the death drive is that you never escape it. It’s an addiction, and I don’t think I want to escape it.
Are you working on something new right now?
CC I’m working on a new piece, something to do with the subject of cows.
PMC Cows?
CC Not real ones. What I mean is, I’m analyzing these companies in Asia that collaborate with young influencers, and I’m connecting this with hyper-production and cows. Hyper-production of videos, streamings, content for social media. These companies contact young people to create a massive amount of content for social media platforms. And I’m drawing a connection between this hyper-production of digital content and the hyper-production of milk from cows.
PMC Are you engaging one of those companies directly? Using them?
CC No, not directly, it’s more of a territory of inquiry, a theme, in relation to younger generations, especially gen alpha.
PMC Will you use social media as part of it? Will the performance exist on social media?
CC I always create two scenarios: one for social media and one for the stage or the physical space, simultaneously. When I do it, it’s live —streamed through a platform or website. I’m kind of building two spaces simultaneously. It depends on the context. For example, in my last performance, Solas, we streamed it on a sexual streaming platform. This created two types of audiences: the real audience present in the performance space and the audience accessing the platform to see porn. On the screen, there’s a chat interface, so what’s fascinating is that the audience in the physical space and the audience on the platform chat about the performance simultaneously. For those not in the room, they receive the feed through the platform. The number of people varies depending on where I stream. For instance, on Instagram, I could have around 1k viewers. But on Chaturbate, the audience tends to be smaller because they quickly realize it’s a performance, not what they expected, so they might only stay for a short time. The platform choice really influences the type of engagement.
PMC What does the use of social media in your work represent? What is it about?
CC It’s about different things, depending on the platform. For instance, with the sexual streaming platform, the focus was on connecting two kinds of audiences. One audience came to watch dance, while the other came to consume porn—though some might not even realize they were engaging with porn. It depends on the project. For example, my next performance will involve TikTok because the imagery of my new piece aligns more with TikTok’s aesthetic. On TikTok, there’s a lot of streaming with bizarre content, like 1,000 dogs in a pool or Asian girls doing nails for 20 hours straight.
PMC I mean, there’s something about the subject you’re choosing to work with—these influencers in Asia, right? Are you trying to understand what they’re like? Or were you saying that, as humans, they essentially become the product?
CC Yeah, exactly—they become the product.
PMC I guess that’s what I’m exploring. The work I’m making seems to grapple with this proposition, though it’s not always straightforward. There’s an interest in these influencers, but I might be looking at it differently. Maybe it ties back to our earlier discussion about irony—or something close to that. But I think my focus is less on social media itself and more on something visceral. It’s about the body, the physical, and its abject existence. These mediums—social media, influencers—are interesting to me in terms of their effect on the body and consciousness. What’s happening when someone becomes a product? What happens to their body and their sense of self? That said, my work tends to circle back to the visceral, the physicality of existence itself. So while the phenomena of influencers and streamers intrigue me, it’s not just about them—it’s about the deeper, more primal aspects of existence. The subject might seem futuristic, but for me, it’s tied to something deeply physical and human.
CC I love your answer, and it was extremely interesting speaking to you. You’re so focused—almost obsessed—with the importance of the body itself, and that’s always been so fascinating to me. Your work is so important to me! Should you ever manage to do a project in Barcelona, or even Europe, and need a performer, I’d be happy to do it!
PMC Let’s stay in touch.
In order of appearance
- Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Santa Anita Drawing Session, 2022. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photography by Alex Stevens.
- Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Adolf and Eva, Dead End Hole (Picnic), 2021. KODE Lysverket Art Museum, Bergen, Norway. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist, Kode Art Museum, Peder Lund, and Hauser & Wirth. Photography by Alex Stevens
- Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E VR experiment Adolf and Eva, 2019-2021. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist, Hauser & Wirth, and Khora Contemporary.
- Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg. A&E, Adolf and Eva, Adam & Eve, Picnic in the Garden of Eden, 2021. © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photo: Alex Stevens.
- Candela Capitán, SOLAS. Courtesy the artist. Photography by Daniel Cao
- Candela Capitán, MOLOKO VELLOCET, 2024. Courtesy the artist.
- Paul McCarthy with Lilith Stangenberg, A&E, Adolf and Eva, Adam & Eve, Santa Anita Drawing Session, 2022 © Paul McCarthy. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth.. Photography by Alex Stevens.
- Candela Capitán, The Death at The Club (in 45min). Courtesy the artist.
- Candela Capitán, GRANJAS HUMANAS. Courtesy the artist.
Daniel Arnold and Donna Ferrato
Dealing with the World as a Collectible Surface
Chance and love—two words that perfectly capture the encounter between photographers Donna Ferrato and Daniel Arnold. In the warmth of Donna’s NYC apartment, the two friends-photographers sit down for a candid conversation. Through the literal lens that unites them—a camera one—they reflect on their lives, the serendipity of their meeting on a summer morning walk, weaving through the intersections of love and lust, the compulsion to document, and the nature of seeing—and being seen.
Donna Ferrato Do you remember how we met? I saw the wildest couple walking down the street—the man seemed completely entranced by the woman, who had this almost ethereal glow, like a firefly in daylight, surrounded by a rainbow aura. I sat with my dear friend, Alex Paterson Jones, a brilliant designer. We were a little high, a little giddy, basking in the warm air. We spotted the man’s camera and I called out to them, Hey, photographer! Hey! I wanted to pull them in, drawn by the feeling that something was stirring, something electric. We needed them inside with us. So what did we say?
Daniel Arnold I looked up, slightly confused, and you told me to get up there! Kay and I had just been at the diner around the corner, and I was walking her to her studio a few blocks away in this totally ridiculous way, like a big cartoon strut, twisting together as I held her at the waist.
DF I can spot someone strange miles away. And, as expected..
DA We were deep in our own rhythm when we suddenly heard a woman call down to us—”Hey photographer!” We looked up, and she said, Get up here. We were feeling impulsive with nowhere particular to be, we just looked at each other and went, Okay, okay. And so, we headed upstairs.
DF You get into the building, you know it’s a little odd, you’re going up the stairs, it’s kind of dark, there’s the woman from the fire escape calling you in the hallway. Keep coming, Come on, come on in there, one more flight. And then they get into the house, the two of them. It’s like we started dancing around each other trying to figure out where we were.
DA The “what is this, who is that dance.”
DF You had a Leica, right? So I knew he was a photographer. I wanted you to know straight away that as soon as you stepped foot into my house, you could take pictures of anything you wanted, because I would have been taking your picture whenever I wanted. I guess that gave us a direction to follow in starting to understand each other, and that’s how it all sort of started, but still, you were very shy about it in the beginning.
DA I wouldn’t say shy, necessarily. Just.. It was all super impulsive—we walked in totally blind. I was just feeling it out, taking the temperature of the room. Not in a hesitant way, I was definitely up for it, but more like, Okay… what’s going on here? Where am I? Who is this person? Can I trust her?
At some point, I noticed more than one copy of a Donna Ferrato book lying around, and it clicked. Oh… wait. This is Donna Ferrato’s place. I knew your work—I was familiar with it—but I had no idea what you actually looked like. I mean, I live in New York, but that doesn’t mean I know everything. I just knew you were a big deal.
DF You didn’t know how friendly I was?
DA I just had to walk up the fire escape to find out! It’s not that I found you unfriendly, I just didn’t know anything about you, the human. And now we’re old friends.
DF We had a ton of pastries, plenty of good stuff to eat, and we just settled in. Then he told me his name, and weirdly enough, I remembered an assistant I had a couple of years back mentioning him—said they were friends. That caught my attention. At the time, I didn’t really know Daniel Arnold’s work. I had looked him up once and thought, hmm… interesting, but it was totally outside what I was following back then. Over the years, though, I kept seeing more of his stuff, and we ended up following each other on Instagram, sort of orbiting each other from a distance. But in that moment, when he said his name—when I realized who he was—it suddenly hit me. Oh. This is something special.
DA Perfect coincidence.
DF And your girlfriend, Kay, she is so whimsical. She doesn’t even realize she has so much strength, she’s like shards of glass, yet there’s something so powerful in her being. She has experienced so much in life: She’s young, but she’s also ancient, and suddenly she was there, showing me who she was. I was on my knees, I tell you. I was so humbled by her.
DA Oh, she knows. And yeah, you were clearly kind of intoxicated by the whole thing. It was great—just the energy of it, the time we spent together. I actually have pictures of you taking pictures of her. And the pictures of us—I don’t know if I ever showed you—but we had them up in the apartment for a while. I had to take them down because of some work we did, but for a time, they were hanging like a mobile from the light fixture. There was just something about them—the way you put it all together, the text on the back, the tape—it turned into this beautiful object. So we let it spin.
DF You gotta show that to me. This is what I like about you, Daniel—you’ve got this very cozy, straightforward vibe. Just a simple man, you know? No pretentious talk about photography, no blah, blah, blah—just the real thing. And I like your life, at least from what I’ve seen. Never been to your place, though. Maybe one day, who knows?
DA We met this spring, it was April, right?
DF Yes. Makes you think of how chance works. Speaking of working, I think we never speak about work, per se.
DA It’s interesting—leading up to this conversation for what, two months? I’ve been quietly, maybe a little neurotically, thinking about it—thinking about my work in relation to yours. I knew the magazine was interested in your Love & Lust series, and over the past month or two, we’ve talked a bit about intimacy—how it plays into both your work and mine. It’s been an interesting new angle, one I wouldn’t have necessarily applied to my own work if not for overthinking this conversation. It made me reflect on how love and lust show up in what I do—not just in the experience of intimacy but in the pursuit of it. And honestly, you could probably take that lens—Love, Lust, Intimacy—and use it to break down any two people, because really, what deeper common ground is there?
DF Than love? Let me tell you something: The majority of people don’t really carry the lust with whoever they love. It’s very rare.
DA Yeah, I had a long thought about this today on my way here. In my model of the world, which I am learning isn’t exactly like yours, lust is really just seeking love—whether it’s intentional or not. Lust is an avenue to love. And I think that, in a healthy, long-term way, love has to go looking for lust too. It’s like this snake consuming itself—lust leads to love, and then love needs to seek lust again. Because, you know, lust is of the body, and love, I think, ends up being more of the mind. It’s a choice, a sacrifice, an agreement. And I think part of maintaining that agreement, part of keeping it going, is that you have to go in pursuit of lust. That makes me think not only of my relationship but also of my work. It connects in a way I hadn’t fully considered before.
DF Without lust, there’s no human sexuality.
DA But I also think that lust is not just about sexuality.
DF To me, lust equates sexual life force. That’s why women’s empowerment and liberation is extremely important. Our lust and pleasure drives are ours to balance. There was a time when men could control women’s drive. No more... Women’s desires can’t be confined and of service to men anymore.
DA Wouldn’t you say that lust can also be expressed elsewhere? When I think about it in terms of work, I kind of see myself in it. Remember when we were talking about your dad and how he wanted—he wanted to take pictures so badly. At the end of the day, he’d stick his camera in the windows of strangers’ houses just to keep taking pictures. I totally get that, that first intense lust for taking pictures. It’s like, you need more, to have more, to capture more. And then, at some point, you move past that. Even though there’s still a muscle memory of it, you go from that intense lust—where you can’t go to bed because you need more pictures—to a place of long-term commitment, where you’ve got to search for that lust again, something that keeps you wanting to work, to keep putting your camera through the window. It’s interesting to think about how that evolution works. And funny, thinking about how the two—lust and love, work and life—fit together.
DF We dovetail together very well. And that all, I think, comes from our fathers. Both of our fathers were brilliant men who both suffered a lot. And we, the children, have suffered too.
DA Well, I’ve got to say, having been exposed to that in my life—in a sort of defanged, up-close, practical way—I also grew up in a world where experiencing the very high and the very low together just feels so natural to me.I think it’s kind of a more honest, more permissive relationship with the world. Yeah, of course I’m depressed sometimes; Of course, I’m having a month where I can barely drag myself out of bed. It’s part of it. And the highs can be just as extreme. You can go too far in either direction.
DF There’s a lot of conversation these days about how, especially the newer generation, seems to have less of a sex drive and a more complicated relationship with pleasure in all its forms. It’s not just about sex and desire, but also about how people relate to their extremes, whether that’s lust or pleasure. The suffering, you know, the human suffering, the cruelty, the barbarism, and the lack of empathy—it’s all killing our sex drive. Where’s the love? We don’t see it in front of us anywhere. It also ties into the relationship with one’s work and the enjoyment of it.
DA What does making work look like for you, nowadays, Donna? What do you shoot?
DF I channel, or rather shoot, my rage through other women’s bodies, women I meet and photograph. Even with Kay’s body that day, when she just took her skirt down in the middle of the house—it’s a place where women come to express what they’re going through, their fears, their rage, and they feel comfortable doing so. It’s been like that for 30 years. But when she did that, capturing that moment—that’s what my work is all about. Being with her in that moment and witnessing it. It was incredible.
DA Was she showing you the tattoo on her back?
DF Yes. It was the tattoo. Then she showed me what the hospitals had done during her surgeries. That was really powerful. But this is what I do all the time. I’m also working on stories about domestic violence. I mean, if I put the word out there, inviting women who’ve been through hell to come and stay with me, they come.
DA How does that part happen?
DF It’s a very private and delicate process. Sometimes they come stay with me for a week or two. I want women to come here and live with me. I feel a deep kinship and trust with these women, like we’re all part of the same story. If they bring their child, that’s fine. If they bring a kitten, that’s fine. It all just flows from one thing to another. I always tell them, “From now on, you photograph me too, because I’m going through hell, and I want the world to see it—just like I’ll be photographing you.” I know I can be intense. Did I scare you a little when we met the first time?
DA No, I wasn’t scared. Maybe cautious, but that’s just how I am, despite running up the stairs. I’m observant. But not scared.
DF Good, good. So you feel safe with me. You know, we’re alike—that’s what we realized today. That’s why we were also so late for the interview. Sorry guys.
DA We caught a spark of friendship from the jump, but we never managed to take the time to sit and swap lore. So we had to take a little extra time rolling out the good stories.
DF Family, craziness, and being honest about it is what brought us closer.
DA Gotta be honest! My idyllic Midwestern beginnings worked like a force field, something I carried with me that eventually had to be broken. I’ve never wanted blinders, but it takes a while to figure out which parts of your life are fantasy. I’ve always pursued reality, always been curious about chaos. And strangely, I think that raw, unfiltered living–though it might feel crazy–it ends up giving you a more grounded existence.
DF Does that have something to do with finding love in your life?
DA Yeah, definitely. That young, idealistic love-seeker in me had to be dismantled—not by me, though. I can’t take credit for that. I just threw myself hard against a lot of brick walls and learned the hard way that Disney life wasn’t available to me. At first, I had that naïve phase where I wanted to turn everyone into the love of my life, for the rest of my life—which, let’s be real, is a tough dream to bring to New York. Then, for seven, eight, maybe nine years, I swung completely in the other direction. I told myself, “No one can have me.” I poured everything into work, compulsively, obsessively. And it delivered. At some point, I realized I was experiencing the feeling of being in love—but alone. Not in love with myself, just in love. Chemically. I was consumed by work, by what I was putting in and getting back. It felt just like love.
DF Amazing. You know, in that way, we’re total opposites. When I came to New York, everything felt possible. I could find love easily and work like a beast at the same time—doing my own projects while hustling like a little street rat, picking up assignments with local downtown newspapers. It was all within reach. I was constantly throwing myself into relationships, wild love affairs, sneaking into the craziest clubs—Paddles, Chateau 19—dressing up, playing with men, making everything part of the experience. That’s how Love&Lust came together, all tangled together in the thrill of it. Photographing swingers, going to orgies, meeting Elizabeth and Bengt.
DA You’re the cautionary tale! I’m kidding, but there’s such a low hanging metaphor-microcosm here, with you swinging off the fire escape inviting me, a stranger, into your home, and me coming up and being cautious, and you wondering if maybe I’m afraid!
DF Here you were, with your girlfriend, and me begging you to take pictures.
DA Think about the way we work. It’s very telling. I have a much more cautious, guarded relationship with the world. You dive in deep, right up to someone’s belly button while they’re in the middle of having sex. Meanwhile, I’m slipping by unnoticed, catching a shot on the street without anyone even realizing I’m there. I’m gone before they can say hello. And I think both approaches have their own truth. They seem, to me, opposite expressions of the same itch—just different personalities finding their own way of coping, dealing with the world as a collectible surface. What I do on the street—while it’s what I’m publicly known for—has also been my education. I had this insatiable desire to document, to collect. Coming to this city with my little Milwaukee mentality, I felt like I needed to take everything home with me. That desire propelled me through an education I didn’t even realize was happening. At first, I didn’t know how to use the camera—I just pointed it at things I wanted. But as dissatisfaction with that grew, I learned. The camera became an extension of my body; I know it inside and out now. And along with that technical evolution, there’s always been the internal work—the work around my family, my home, my relationships. Even though that’s more private, I approach it with the same intensity. Just as you shot your domestic violence work, I document my own home in that same deep, personal way.
DF You see, that’s beautiful—truly beautiful.
DA It’s been a way to make sense of the early hiccups in a relationship, when you don’t fully know where the other person stands. My absent-minded, work-obsessed way of being could have easily felt like neglect, like not caring enough. But I had to point it out—look at how I live my life, look at the time, energy, and attention I pour into this. The three cameras on my desk next to the bed, the way I treat our existence as something worth keeping, collecting, studying. It’s not detachment—it’s devotion, just in my own language.
DF To be able to share a life with someone who understands and connects with this, it’s a beautiful thing.
DA When I think about it in relation to your work—the sex, the domestic violence, the big headline stories like Donna Ferrato—it’s obviously a different subject matter. I’m not documenting violence or abuse, but still, thinking about it alongside what you do gives me a new perspective on my own work. I’ve cultivated this relationship with my home where I can be completely in it, fully present and lovingly invested, yet still maintain an outsider’s perspective—feels meaningful. It allows me to step back and say, this matters, we need to keep this. I had such a juicy thought about this. When we were talking before the interview—yeah, the story of your dad. She told me about her father, this compulsive, insatiable photographer, always reaching for the camera, always capturing. Sticking the lens through a window at night, photographing everything, every moment.
DF You know, sharing these things with people—especially family—creates a bond like no other. I have a relationship with my ex-husband, Johnny. He’s been through everything with my parents, my brothers, and me. The street is just the surface. Home is where everything truly unfolds, where you see the raw, unfiltered truth. That’s where the real shit happens.
DA I don’t want to over-tell your story, but your dad experienced something profound—sitting in his home as an old man, watching his betrayed wife destroy all the work he had ever made. We call that a tragedy. A triumph for your mother, a tragedy for your father. But in that moment, I also thought—maybe it’s perfect. Because it clarifies the real core value of it all. You take away the work, and at first, it feels like erasure, like his life has been undone. But because he made that work. Because he cultivated that part of his mind and arranged his life around it. He lived in a way that can’t be erased. Those pictures existed because he saw, thought, and engaged with the world in a certain way. And that—his relationship with the world—means so much more than any legacy ever could, more than any proof ever could. It was his life. It was the world. Having all your work disappear, it’d be heartbreaking—but only for a moment. The life that created it, the experiences and state of mind behind it, can never be taken away.
DF Think of the Palisades—through the fires, through the loss. Everything is dust to dust. We’re not in control. Photographers, filmmakers, musicians—losing everything they’ve ever created. But they still have themselves.
DA It might be an insensitive time to think this, but there is a version of losing everything that might actually be a gift.
DF It’s about resistance. So many are just waiting to see what happens—but if you’ve been paying attention, you already know. We’re breathless, always bracing for the worst. Without collective action, we’ll all end up like Metropolis—faceless drones, marching back and forth, stripped of individuality. In fact, we may already be there. Resistance is all we have left. And somehow, we have to build it together.
DA Well yeah, you said something a little while ago—what can you do to be good? You be of service. You bother to see who’s around you and you do what you can to help. When we’re at risk of becoming drones, that’s a powerful guiding light, even without revolutionary upheaval. That’s one of the great things about New York, especially for photographers. You can’t help but tune into the idea that being of service is everything—it’s the way out of any darkness. Maybe that’s naive, maybe it’s not enough for what’s coming. But it feels like the right place to start, community. It connects you to your humanity in a sort of smelling salts way. Wakes you up.
DF Build relationships. In the subways, they say, Don’t be someone else’s subway story. But the truth is, I am the story. I’ve been creating and telling these stories for a long time—through my own lens, my own voice. My father used to say, If it wasn’t for you, Donna, men would still be getting away with beating their wives. You showed the world how ugly it is. You made men feel guilty—at least for a while. Who knows? Do you think New York still has its own creative language?
DA New York is a place where, no matter when you show up, you always feel like you just missed it. There’s so much I missed, that I’ve come to fetishize. But the creative language of the city—it transcends generations. I think New York does something to people. Whether it’s meaningful—-or getting better or worse, I’m not sure—but it taps into something deep.There’s an undeniable thread through hundreds of years—people who come here and fall into the same obsessive relationship with the city, trying to articulate their own special connection. When I found out Leaves of Grass was about walking around Manhattan, looking at the people, I went nuts. It’s so far back, it’s not even photography. It just feels like such profound time travel to find it all alive in myself. New York still has that essence. Being in this place, in the mess of people making their mythology—it’s like a constant. It hits people in a way that’s traceable through time, and it doesn’t change that much. You really feel impermanence pressed on your throat here. Every store, every restaurant is built on the ghost of 500 others, and you look away for a month and there’s an entirely new city. Everything is so fleeting. It makes you want to catch every face, every train, to hold onto the moment. It intensifies the instinct to value the passing moment because everything moves so fast, and you’re confronted constantly with your impermanence and your insignificance. My story is as good as anybody else’s, because I can see we’re all going to end up erased. So whatever, might as well enjoy the ride.
DF I think that’s what it is about New York—it’s always had this sense embedded in it, even before this feeling became so widespread.
DA Yeah. It’s a very New York thing that has infected the world. We shouldn’t be surprised –we’ve been trying to infect them forever.
In order of appearance
- Donna Ferrato, Daniel Arnold & Kay Kasparhauser, 2024
- Donna Ferrato, Swingers So, CA 1999
- Donna Ferrato, Studio 54, 1980
- Donna Ferrato, Studio 54 Poppers, 1980
- Daniel Arnold
- Daniel Arnold
- Donna Ferrato, Kay Kasparhauser, 2024
- Donna Ferrato, Kay Kasparhauser 2024
- Donna Ferrato, Dad Open Heart Surgery. 2008
Courtesy and Toxe
DJs, producers and multi-hyphenate Courtesy and Toxe dive into a warm, free-flowing conversation, spanning from the interplay between public architecture and sound to the Dutch Golden Age’s visual storytelling, weaving through the Danish art scene—and, of course, the pulse of music. A meeting of minds where genres blur, influences collide, and creative instincts take center stage.
Toxe I started making music when I was really young—around 15. My brother got me Ableton back then and really pushed me to start. He was the one who initially got me into it, but after a while, he stepped back, and I was able to explore and discover things on my own. My latest album leans heavily into lyrics and singing, which is something new for me. But I’m not looking to stop with music itself; I’m always finding ways to build on it. I also recently graduated with a degree in architecture, and I think that mindset—of constantly adding layers and depth—applies to everything I do.
Courtesy I read that both your parents are artists, which, honestly, made me a bit jealous.
Toxe They’re very local artists in Gothenburg, where I’m from—and actually, I’m in Gothenburg right now. My dad’s a sculptor, and my mom does a bit of everything, though lately, she’s been making costumes for theater. They both work a lot with scenography and public art projects.
Courtesy This feels like a very Scandinavian thing. In the Danish art scene, a lot of young artists I know are involved in public sculptures and similar projects. But in Germany, none of my artist friends or anyone from the scene here would ever do something like a town hall sculpture. In Scandinavia, contemporary artists take part in these traditions, due to the funding and cultural focus.
Toxe That’s probably true, I think for many public building projects here there is always part of the budget set aside for public art or something of a requirement. I like public art in the same way i like pop music, it’s for the people and more integrated into everyday life where it can really make big impact.
Courtesy There’s this Danish artist, Poul Gernes, who was a 1960s provocateur. He did a lot of school and hospital decorations, as well as some iconic public commissions. One of his most famous works is a building in Copenhagen called the Palads. It’s this pastel pink cinema right in the middle of the city—anyone who’s taken the train into Copenhagen would recognize it.The building itself is kind of controversial. It was originally an old station building, probably built around 1900 or earlier, and it had that classic architecture of the time. When it became a cinema, they decided to do this big PR stunt—they completely covered the building in construction materials so no one could see it and then commissioned Gernesto to transform it. He painted it this bold, almost garish pastel pink and many other off colors that looked absolutely wild. When they revealed it, it caused a huge stir. Something like that would never happen today in a Scandinavian city—they’d be much more cautious. But back then, it was a major statement. Now, they’re planning to tear it down, which is bittersweet. I’ve been involved in a project documenting the building for a book. I wasn’t doing traditional architectural photography, since that’s not my thing, but I was capturing portraits of the building.
Toxe You’re also a photographer, right?
Courtesy I do photography as part of my art practice, but not in the sense of being a photographer, if that makes sense. This project is an example of the kind of town hall or public art commissions that feel so distinctly Scandinavian.
Toxe I hadn’t really thought about it specifically as a Scandinavian thing, but it’s probably true. Even though I’m very different from my parents in what we make and how it looks, I think they’ve definitely influenced me—particularly in terms of working with space and spatial ideas. They’re very sculptural and focused on things like architecture or engaging with existing spaces and places in the city. I think that influence really shaped me, more than anything else.
Courtesy Why did you study architecture?
Toxe When the pandemic hit, I thought, This is the perfect time to study. I’d always wanted to study at some point, but, you know how it is—when you’re DJing and working on projects, it’s hard to find the time to stop and do something like that. The timing just worked out. So, in 2021, I moved to Amsterdam to study, and I spent the last three or four years there. I just finished this summer. Did you study?
Courtesy I studied a few different things but didn’t finish most of them. I did complete a bachelor’s at the conservatory, though. Otherwise, I spent some time studying psychology and cultural studies— art history and similar topics—at a master’s level, but I didn’t finish. But it’s fine..You’re not gonna get many jobs from reading Judith Butler or Foucault.
Toxe It’s a good addition to what you’re making, similarly to the way I studied architecture. It wasn’t like a classic, technical school. It was more of an art school, you know? We read a lot about architectural theory, and people were exploring all kinds of things. It felt less strict—more like something you could add to any art practice, or even use if you wanted to be a writer or do research. It was very open in that way.
Courtesy I think one of the first art history books I read was Gombrich’s The Story of Art. It kind of ends up being the story of architecture and art: Since the Renaissance, all the artists were architects too. You can’t really talk about one without the other—the influence is so intertwined, with the same people designing buildings and creating art. So unless you go to a really technical school, those two things are kind of unavoidable—they’re just linked together.
Toxe Of course, totally—I fully agree. It feels like such a valuable thing to have studied. There’s so much interesting reading that really adds to how you see the world.
Courtesy How was it to write lyrics for your album?
Toxe Um, I think writing lyrics is probably the newest part of my whole music-making process. Singing and using my voice is something I’ve always done, even before this album. Like, I’m always humming or singing when I make melodies or harmonize—it’s just a tool I use when I produce. But this is the first time I’ve actually put my voice directly into the production, so that part felt more natural. The lyrics, though—that’s what’s really new for me. I didn’t originally plan for them to be in Swedish; it just kind of happened. I think there are a lot of sounds in Swedish that fit my voice really well. Plus, I have this strange, awkward relationship with the language because I haven’t lived in Sweden since I was 18. My Swedish feels very simple, very teen-like, and I actually like that awkwardness. It works for this kind of poppy, teeny-sounding record. The lyrics are simple and repetitive, and I really like how that turned out. I feel like this is just my first attempt, though, and I want to do more of it. I’ve always loved paying attention to lyrics when I listen to music, and now it feels like this whole new world has opened up. But yeah, lyric writing is definitely the most awkward part for me. It’s also what I struggle with the most, but I like that. I like when something feels a little awkward, difficult, or uncomfortable. It’s a good challenge. Did you sing or write lyrics before?
Courtesy I have an awful singing voice, so that’s never gonna happen. But this is the first record I’ve done with lyrics—not my voice, but still. When I started working on the album, I wanted to include lyrics, so I started paying a lot more attention to poetry. I was reading a lot and kind of absorbed that. I’ve had this idea for a while, though—that I wanted to collaborate with writers I know. Not songwriters, but friends who are art critics, artists with writing practices, or authors. This album felt like the perfect opportunity to make that happen. For example, I commissioned a text from Sofia Defino Leiby—she’s an American artist, a painter, but she also writes and released a book last year. I gave her a theme to work with, which was breadcrumbing. You know, when you’re dating someone or in a situationship, and they’re just giving you the bare minimum—little breadcrumbs—to keep you hooked. I had this idea for the first song, gave Sofia the concept, and she wrote a longer text for it. Then I worked with a Singaporean singer Sophie Joe, she’s this really technically amazing singer—and we edited the text together into the song. I did something similar with the Danish author Lucia Odoom. I asked her to write a song as well, and then I edited it down to fit. It was a really interesting process.
Toxe So they all kind of just wrote a whole text, and then you edited it down?
Courtesy They wrote a whole text, and then I edited it. I worked closely with the vocalists, recording them in my studio and shaping the final piece. Of course, I also wrote all the music. I did this with four different writers for the album, so you end up with these longer texts that sit somewhere between songs and poetry
Toxe There are so many ways to work with words and music—it’s really exciting. Even doing something like that, or writing for others, feels like it would be so much fun. It’s like this whole new world that’s opened up, and I’m really excited about it.But for me, compared to what you’re describing, the way I made my new album was pretty different. I just hummed nonsense over the songs first, like placeholder sounds, and then I translated that into words. It wasn’t this thing where you start with a full text and then shape it into a song, or chop it up and structure it. It was more about fitting real words into the nonsense sounds I was already making.
Courtesy What was the name of that beautiful Scottish band that used nonsense lyrics a lot?
Toxe Cocteau Twins? Yeah, I mean, I guess that band just kept it that way—leaving it as nonsense sounds. But I think a lot of people’s process starts like that. You kind of just sing nonsense. For some people, it’s very much like, “I’m writing a poem, and then I’m putting it into a song,” or, “I’m freestyling words as I go.” For me, it was really hard to just freestyle words. I think it’s because I’m also thinking a lot like a producer. It makes more sense for me to hum things first, and then construct the words afterward. It’s kind of a mix: it’s intuitive because I’m just singing freely, but the word aspect feels very deliberate and organized—like a producer’s approach.
Courtesy Do you work very much in the grid as a producer? Like, in terms of 4/4 timing and the way you compose—how structured are your songs?
Toxe Yeah, I think so. My songs usually have a clear structure, but they evolve and change in different ways. I wouldn’t say I’m too rigid, but I’m definitely structured. I’ve never been the kind of person who had a lot of instruments around me when making music. I’ve always worked on my laptop, so I never really jammed with people or recorded live instruments. I guess that naturally makes my process more “griddy.” Adding a human voice does make things a bit more fluid, but in general, my approach is pretty structured. I did make a soundtrack for a movie once, though, and that was very different. It involved a lot of field recordings and creating ambiances, more about capturing moods than following a strict grid. It was for a small film my friend made and something I released on PAN Records a few years ago. That was the first time I really stepped outside of that grid-focused approach, but in general, my work is very laptop-based and structured. What about you? How do you approach it?
Courtesy No, it’s all over the place for me. I work with a lot of musicians, and it’s kind of complicated for them to work with the material I make because it’s so disjointed. Even for the singers, it’s probably a bit of a nightmare, but we figure it out in the end. I don’t really stick to a set grid, and a lot of the basslines aren’t in 4/4—like, they end up being kind of poly-rhythmic without me intending for it to be that way. It’s just what sounded good at the moment. The basslines, for instance, won’t be in 4/4, which makes mixing tricky for some dj’s. Some songs on the album, I think, sound really great like that, but it doesn’t always translate well if you’re someone like a DJ using the loop function to mix in. It just won’t work because everything is kind of going over an awkward number of bars. The length of the vocals or different instrumental parts doesn’t line up the way you’d expect, which makes it hard to mix in a conventional way.
Toxe I get what you mean—it’s not like I’m producing or making songs with the club or mixing in mind either, or even how it’s going to sound on speakers. It’s more about what feels right in the moment.
Courtesy And what about your new album, Toxe2?
Toxe It just kind of happened, really. I initially wanted to do a self-titled album because it feels like my first, and more personal”. But the title actually came about because of the artwork I created. I was really into movie logos and entertainment media—those flat, logo-style texts that capture the emotion and story of a film or game. So I started creating a logo for the album, just for the sake of having one, and it turned into something that felt right, which then became the album name.
Courtesy It for sure streamlines questions of authorship! [laughs] I did an EP called The Violence of the Mood Board, which plays with the idea of authorship and critique. If you’ve ever seen mood boards—whether for fashion, a photoshoot, or some creative project—you’ve probably noticed how they often appropriate images from photographers, visual artists, and other sources without any credit. A friend of mine, an art critic, Jeppe Ugelvig, wrote an essay, which touches on how the fashion industry tends to appropriate images from artists and incorporate them into fashion mood boards or campaigns without giving credit. But the critique goes both ways: the imagery used in the EP artwork from that record came from Sofia Defino Leiby, a visual artist and painter who makes collages and sometimes appropriates imagery from fashion. It highlights this reciprocal relationship between art and fashion, where both sides borrow and recontextualize without clear ownership. In the context of music, particularly dance music, the conversation around authorship, sampling, and originality is always complicated. It’s an ongoing discussion that doesn’t really hold much weight, but it’s still something I find fascinating. Fashion, too, is full of contradictions—it’s a space where appropriation is widespread and accepted, yet often ignored. It’s all part of this broader critique I’m interested in exploring, not because I’m particularly invested in fashion, but because it’s a field that’s deeply messed up in its own way. I’ve worked with smaller brands that I’m friends with, where I made music specifically for them, and I consider those collaborations more artistic. Then there are the situations where I’ve been paid to have my music used in a fashion show or ad. But the worst part is when bigger fashion brands steal your music—they’ll use it in their shows, and when they post the video online, they’ll change the music just enough to make it hard to prove legally. It’s a really shady move, and unfortunately, it’s something that happens all the time. It’s just part of the gross side of the industry.
Toxe I’ve only had stuff where people buy my music for runway shows, not really commissions. So, I don’t think I have a deeper relationship with fashion in that way, not really.
Courtesy Yeah, I get that. It feels like fashion’s kind of stuck right now, especially with the big houses just doing the same thing—studio shoots with celebrities, no real creativity. A few years ago, there was more excitement around it, but now it’s like everything’s watered down, even from brands like Balenciaga, where it feels more like behind-the-scenes stuff than actual fashion. It’s only the small, up-and-coming brands that feel fresh and interesting, but the industry as a whole doesn’t seem to be pushing boundaries at the moment. I wanted to know—what did you end up writing the lyrics about? Just going back to that, what are the songs about? Anything in particular?
Toxe Well, I think the general themes are very much like love songs, and also just isolation and loneliness. A lot of it reflects that phase of my life where I was just alone a lot, especially in Amsterdam. I didn’t really have a private life there, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because I like being alone a lot. But yeah, the topics really revolve around that—isolation and those feelings.
Courtesy Unrelated question, but do you like Dutch art? I recently fell in love again with the old Flemish masters, like Jan van Eyck, that’s why I am asking. I was at the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin recently, I go there often actually, and they have some great Dutch painters, along with Renaissance pieces, like the Italians and others. I really enjoy painting a lot. As for architecture, is there a particular architect or movement you’re into? I’ve been reading a book recentlythat explores architecture and politics in Germany from 1918 to 1945. It focuses especially on the Bauhaus movement and the Nazi response to it, and how architecture became so politicized in Germany. It’s really intense, especially considering recent events in Germany. But I love architecture because it can tell you a lot about a city. You can even see when a city was bombed, just by looking at how much modern architecture there is. You can also learn a lot about a city’s political history by which buildings have managed to survive.
Toxe It’s hard to say if I have a specific favorite architect or movement, but over the past year, I’ve been reading a lot of Beatriz Colomina, if you’re familiar with her. She’s an architectural theorist, and her work focuses more on the relationship between mass media and architecture. It’s been really interesting, especially in terms of understanding how the two—media and architecture—interact and shape our perceptions of space. She talks about this a lot in her book Publicity and Privacy, where she compares the work of architects like Le Corbusier and Adolf Loos, analyzing their different practices. Later, she shifts focus to modernism and mass media, particularly the transformation of domestic space. She explores how buildings, once transparent and open, have become spaces that are now staged for representation, and how we’ve become experts in crafting our own public personas. Colomina dives deeply into privacy, examining how our intimate spaces—the home, personal life—have become increasingly public. We’re all constantly exposed to representations of other people’s private lives, especially in today’s digital age. For example, I can see your house in the background here, on Zoom, and we all now live in a world where our homes are often seen as a backdrop for our online selves. We’re more exposed to curated representations of spaces, like in movies or social media, than to the actual physical spaces themselves. What interests me most is how this affects how we perceive and interact with space. We live in an age where the domestic space is both staged for online consumption and yet made to appear intimate, personal. It’s like we’re living in a movie set, framing and presenting our surroundings for an audience, but at the same time, this display of intimacy can be flattened, reduced to signifiers—symbols of our lives rather than their true essence. It’s fascinating how the domestic becomes a kind of branding tool, where we curate and perform intimacy for an online audience.
Courtesy I just finished Understanding a Photograph by John Berger, and he explores this really interesting distinction between commercial photography and private photography. What’s fascinating is how these two have completely merged now, especially with social media. The purpose of both has shifted, and it’s so relevant today. His perspective really adds to how we think about the act of capturing moments and their meaning. It reminds me of Susan Sontag’s writings on photography as well. Both she and Berger, contemporaries in their time, were essentially in conversation about media theory and the staging of images. Like, photography has always been a performance in a way—there’s no such thing as an “authentic” photograph. Every image is an interpretation or edit of a moment. And that’s why I think it’s so uncomfortable to have my photo taken. It’s not just a snapshot of me; it’s someone else’s aesthetic or interpretation of me in that moment. It’s their perspective imposed on me, which is a strange and unsettling feeling. I think people often believe there’s some kind of inherent truth in a photograph that doesn’t actually exist. It’s more of a constructed narrative—every photo tells a story, but it’s never a completely accurate reflection of reality. It’s like every image has been filtered through the lens of someone else’s view.
Toxe Yeah, exactly. It’s fascinating how this has evolved. We’ve always been staging ourselves in some way, whether through portraits or still lifes in historical paintings, where possessions and settings were carefully chosen to present a certain image or status. But now, in the age of social media, it’s like that process is happening in real-time, constantly being updated and shared. The line between what’s real and staged is so blurred. It’s almost like authenticity is no longer a fixed concept—it’s become performative in itself. The act of presenting your life, your home, your possessions, and even your emotions online is a performance, but it’s also embraced as “authentic.” It’s not about hiding the fact that you’re performing; it’s about making the performance feel genuine, relatable, or aspirational. Everyone is curating their persona, but at the same time, that curation is seen as real, as part of who they are. It’s a strange paradox, right? The performance becomes its own form of truth. And in this digital age, we’ve all become experts at shaping and performing these narratives about ourselves.
Courtesy That shift in how authenticity is viewed is so interesting, especially in creative fields like music. Ten years ago, there was so much emphasis on being “authentic” or “original,” as if it was a standard to strive for. Musicians were expected to have their own voice, and if you weren’t presenting something unique or deeply personal, it felt like you weren’t really succeeding. But now, as you said, it’s almost like that concept has been diluted, to the point where it’s not even about striving for authenticity—it’s more about how you present yourself, the world you build around your art. Now, it’s about the whole package—creating a brand, a persona, a narrative that feels coherent, whether or not it’s “authentic” in the traditional sense. And I think that’s what’s made the music scene, and even creative industries in general, so much more about curation and perception than about the work itself. It’s like people are less interested in whether the music is original or authentic and more focused on how it fits into a larger narrative or how it can be consumed. The idea of “authenticity” in the traditional sense feels almost outdated in comparison. It’s less about what you’re doing and more about the image you project while doing it
Toxe It’s fun to surprise people. I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it.
Courtesy It’s really contemporary, though, because even when I started my record label, the last one, Kulør, we had this big record with what was considered fast dance music at the time. It resonated a lot with people who are now in their late 30s or so, and up until a year ago, I was still associated with that sound. But since then, I’ve explored a lot of different genres. My approach to music is very eclectic. Yet, I’d have people, particularly men, come up to me and tell me I wasn’t being true to myself, saying things like, “Be yourself.” It was like they had this one snapshot of me—this moment that captured a version of me and they wanted me to always be that person. But for me as an artist, that’s not interesting. If people are expecting me to stay in that one frame, they’ll always be disappointed, because I can’t be reduced to that singular snapshot or sound they want me to fit into.I think in the art world, especially in contemporary art, there’s more acceptance of evolution in an artist’s practice. But in the dance music community, there’s still a lot of resistance to change. Some people have very rigid ideas of what authentic music is and what’s “acceptable.” It’s definitely a generational thing. That’s why movements like the ones at parties, like the deconstructed club oneS Dan booked in Berlin, where there were DJs breaking norms and pushing boundaries, always upset people. That kind of music still pisses people off in the dance music community today. It’s like, once you challenge these long-held ideas of what’s “authentic,” it causes friction.
Toxe Yeah, exactly! It’s fun to pull people along, surprise them. When they start expecting too much from me, I just get this feeling like, ugh, I can’t breathe. It’s suffocating. But I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it. It’s a nice feeling, like breaking free from their expectations and showing them something unexpected.
Courtesy A lot of artists I like in visual art are really trolly as well. Do you think that this recent conversation about expectation, staging, and the distinction between the private, intimate, and public – and what is given to people for consumption – connects to the art of DJing or performing? I definitely think about the audience I want to play for. When I DJ, I mix different genres, blending experimental music with classic house tunes. I’m always considering the dance floor, but it’s not about playing what the crowd expects at that moment. I focus on what the future of the dance floor could be. It’s not about playing commercially functional music – I know that right now, hard techno is popular, but that doesn’t mean I’ll play it just because it works. I’m not interested in it. For me, it’s about being mindful of what works, but also not playing music I find boring, even if it’s effective. That’s really important to me.
Toxe For me, I feel like I’m a pretty bad DJ in the sense that I just play whatever I want to play. Of course, I’m mindful of the situation I’m in, but when I DJ, I see it more as an extension of the music I make. I’m just trying to create a context for people to understand what I’m into by embedding my music into that wider musical world. If it’s a party, I want to make people dance and have fun, of course. Regarding performance, I’m very much a loner. I make music alone, and I really prefer to keep the process private until it’s finished. I don’t collaborate much, and I don’t share anything until I feel it’s ready. So, going from that private, intimate space to public performance is a big shift for me. It’s about translating something deeply personal into a public spectacle, and that transition is interesting, though difficult and weird at times. It makes me feel somewhat detached from myself, as you become a product, especially when you’re aware of using your own image and being very public. But there’s still a distance, especially online, since I haven’t performed live in front of large audiences yet. Now, with this album, I want to figure out how to perform live, especially with singing, and be on stage more.
Courtesy I’m curious—do you enjoy hanging out with groups of people? Growing up, did you have a friend group, or did you prefer individual friends? For me, it’s definitely individual friends. I’m not a group person at all; a dinner with four people max is ideal, and anything more than that starts to feel stressful. Unless I’m at a party or actual club.
Toxe The idea of a large group dinner doesn’t attract me at all.
Courtesy It’s interesting because, for someone who performs, people often expect me to be more social, but I just don’t thrive in big groups. I collaborate a lot, but my collaborations are usually limited to a max of three people in a room—me and two others. That’s when it feels like a really beautiful dynamic, but I don’t want anyone else around. I do enjoy performing, though, because it’s different. When I’m on stage, I’m controlling the room. I’m the one guiding the energy of the entire space, and I find that really interesting.
Toxe No, exactly. I’m curious about how this transition works, because DJing is one thing—you’re just controlling the room and the sound, and it feels more technical that way. But then when it comes to singing live, it’s a completely different experience. It’s much more personal, more exposed in a way. I wonder how you navigate that shift, from being in control of the energy through music to sharing something so intimate with an audience.
Courtesy How do you feel about microphones? Because they fucking scare me.
Toxe I don’t know yet. I definitely need to have some kind of rehearsal or something to get into it. I’m excited though because I like the challenge and the uncomfortable feeling, but yeah, it feels awkward for sure. Like, I haven’t really sung live much, maybe once or twice, so it’s all pretty new to me. I didn’t even consider it when I made the album—like, “Oh, I want to make a vocal album and perform.” It wasn’t part of the plan. Now, I’m trying to figure out how to do it in a way that makes sense for me.
Courtesy Any shows planned?
Toxe I’m heading to the US now and will be in New York for the rest of the year. I think I’ll start doing live shows in 2025.
Courtesy What are you doing in New York?
Toxe I’m planning to work there for a bit—I might have a job at an architecture studio. I’ll be doing that while working on music, preparing for my live, and traveling a bit. I might want to move there long-term, so it’s a bit of a trial phase for me. You’re in Berlin, right?
Courtesy Yes. Which is kind of like New York, like a kind of sad New York now. No jobs, but the same prices, almost like.
Toxe You’ve been there for a while, right?
Courtesy I’ve been here for about eight years, so I’m kind of stuck here now, a little bit. I think it’s going to be the one, though. Yeah, I’ve built a family here now.
Toxe Do you have kids?
Courtesy Yeppp!
Toxe Whaaaat? Wow!
Courtesy I have a daughter that’s three years old, so the moving around has stopped.
Toxe It’s beautiful. Do you think motherhood affected your music?
Courtesy It’s really just about time management. I am in a way much more productive than before. Now, I don’t have the same kind of time, and it’s frustrating because your whole perception of time changes when you become a parent. A lot of people use it as an excuse to not make art, or they just don’t have the resources. But the reality is, you have limitations unless you choose not to spend time with your kid, which isn’t an option if you’re trying to be an active part of their life. You really have to prioritize and be efficient with your time. And when I do have those days where I can just work, it’s honestly amazing.I think some people can have the structure without it, but for me, it gave me the structure and motivation I needed to become a proper artist, instead of just kind of floating around.
Toxe Yeah, that makes sense. Also because you’re not doing that just for yourself anymore.
Courtesy Exactly, I do it for her too.
Credits
Talent · Courtesy wears SIA ARNIKA
Photography · Pablo Manrique
Styling · Yannic Joel Hohaus
Makeup Artist · Naomi Gugler
Hair Stylist · Rebecca Schmitz from Nina Klein Agency
Styling Assistants · Diana Lukashuk and Stella Jennifer Roswitha Wiechers
Talent · Toxe
Photography · Michael Wolever
Styling · Michael Wolever and Toxe
Photography Assistant · Tucker Van Der Wyden
Joel Meyerowitz
Memory, 35mm
Considered to be the pioneer of color photography, Joel Meyerowitz (1938) discusses his artistic path, his transition from painting to photography, the will of capturing every single aspect of reality through art and the picture he wishes he had taken but didn’t. This interview offers profound insights into Joel Meyerowitz’s artistic journey and the history of photography as a medium, delving into the impact of the practice on his personal life and on art in general.
Sara van Bussel You have a long lasting career, and your practice is very rich, with works that span from portraits, to street photography, to landscape, even reportage (911 memorial series). If you had to describe the single thing that they all have in common, what would it be? How would you describe your gaze, in toto?
Joel Meyerowitz I would say that my overall and general way of looking at the world is curiosity.
I am interested in things that have photographic problems at their heart, such as, how does one find invisibility on the street, so that one could be free enough to make interesting pictures out of the fragmentary conditions that form contemporary urban life. But I also ask the questions: what is a portrait? Who is it of? How does one go about making it, or a landscape, or a still life? How does one take on a tragedy the scale of ground zero, the 9/11 destruction of the towers? How does a single person do a reportage on something as big as that?
So I think all along questions about the essential nature of the medium of photography have been what has motivated me to continue searching and responding. If I hadn’t had that kind of open heartedness about the medium itself and I made the same kind of street pictures over and over again for 60 years I probably would have run out of energy after 10 years. Because when you look at the history of photography many great photographers had merely 10 years more or less of active dynamic connection to the medium and then moved along. So for some reason this dynamic medium gave me an opportunity to reframe the question for myself so that I could stay interested.
SVB In the documentary La peau des Rues directed by Philippe Jamet, you talk about how the world of advertisement changes the perception of reality: shaping a fictitious one, tailor made to the consumer. I am fascinated by this idea of reality in general: is a captured reality more ‘true’ than a constructed one? Is picking a fragment out of a scene from daily life less staged? What is in fact, ‘’truth’’ in photography?
JM There are photographers who use a kind of mise en scène to make their work. They create an environment, whether they build it or they use a found environment and they bring actors in and they have some kind of idea about a subject that they’d like to talk about or visualize. I’ve seen quite a few of those kinds of pictures, and what always astonishes me about them is how boring they are, how flat footed, how lacking in real human connection those tableaux vivants really are. They feel staged, as hard as they try to look like the real thing in a real place they always feel like overdramatized but under imagined in some way, whereas working on the street in the tradition of Cartier Bresson, Robert Frank or even Eugene Atget in his way and my own work, these are moments of pure perception, we could say, fleeting consciousness. When I am out in the street I am watching the panoramic movement of everything on the street in front of me, and I am trying to stay loose and open in such a way that when my senses tell me that there is something emerging from the flow of life around me. Relationships that are spread across the street and have nothing to do with each other but to me, from my perspective, where I could put a frame around the piece of the street and join a couple or a trio on one side and a single person somewhere else, if I can see that there is some fleeting meaning, something that is almost indecipherable but when you see it as a finished frame it seems to hold a kind of electrical energy, because it’s reality in the moment of transcendence. This may sound a bit Buddhist and spiritual in some ways but if you do it as I have for 60 years you begin to recognize that there are truths, and they’re really your truths, they are not about truth in general. The fact that I can see certain things because they are my response mechanism, they are in a sense the flavor of my life, they are almost like poetry.
What we love about poems is that if we read the work of one writer from poem to poem there are consistencies, points of view, reverence of life, understanding of nature, a connection to the human endeavors. There is a philosophy at work, and I feel that street photography, or ‘outside in the world photography’ that relates to your own sense of what’s important, and tests that day after day with a slow building up of images, manages to bring up all of this. Over a lifetime there may be 30 or 50 images in all that carry something of who you are and how you see the world. And so it’s this kind of essential distillation of the fragmentary quality of life in the 20th and the 21st century that is put on film or in pixels and held there for people to look at in the future, to understand something about who that person was, who existed in that time frame, and what was it that they saw that gives us some sense of meaning about that time.
I understood that from looking at Robert Franks book ‘The Americans’, which was made up of all these fragments – 70 pictures – all of them adding up to 1 or 2 seconds of life, and yet they carry with them an incredible meaning.
SVB You talk about the idea that photography to you is capturing a time, freezing History as it unfolds in front of our eyes. As a medium, photography has immediacy as a fundamental power. A picture manages to capture something in a split second, Instead of a painting, which for example takes months if not years. How do you take this into consideration when you work? Since I know you originally started as an abstract painter, I am curious about this switch you made.
JM Re reading this question I realize that my answer to the previous one also relates to this. The only thing I would add here is that I had been a painter, an abstract expressionist painter of the second generation. I started painting in the 50’s and abstract expressionism was already a flourishing concept in painting back then, I was trying to find my way out of that when I returned to New York to take up a life as an artist. But it became clear to me once I discovered photography in 1962 that I really much preferred the reality of the everyday world, and that pushing around blue into a magenta wasn’t really enough for me to stay interested in. It was an argument that no longer had meaning for me. On the other hand photography had a major argument in it. It was not accepted as an art form, it was considered commercial or amateurish, particularly in color, so my big argument was how do I break through the wall of resistance that only black and white was art in photography and try to convince the photography world that color was equal, if not more important, than black and white.
SVB When talking about your work, it is impossible not to come across the so called ‘question of color’, since you are recognized as one of the first to use it in photography. If I understood it clearly, however, the use of color in your practice is a very logical choice, since you see photography as something that, quoting you: ‘’has to document reality to its fullest’’. Following this statement, I was wondering if you had ever considered film, since it includes all of the element that reality is able to offer: its people, their movement, color nuances. I then discovered you did indeed experiment with film, by producing the movie ‘pop’. How was this experience? What was the fundamental difference with your photographic work?
JM Working with still color film requires a commitment to making thousands of photographs, to really understand the way color works. Black and white is an abstraction and a reduction, and at the time the kind of understanding of photography was that if you pick up a camera and you press the botton what you see in front of you is just the description of what’s there. Description was and is a very important asset to photography. I felt, as a very young photographer, that if description is what photography is really all about but it’s in black and white then is losing the full emotional range and content that color brings to it.
So my first argument was to try to revise this understanding, and you know, youth is the real avant garde because you don’t really care about what came before, you may love it and learn from it but you have to push away the past in order to make way for the present. So I was looking to not only educate myself but to educate the viewers that I was able to show this work to ( limited, believe me, back then in the 60s) by advancing the sense of what color can do, in the way it describes atmosphere, and skin tones, and the local radiance of the way light bounces around off of surfaces or reflects off of corners and the floor. How variant all of these tonalities are and how artistic this really is, in ways that we don’t actually describe when we look at pictures, we search for the meaning of the picture but yet the color is embedded in the meaning, it lifts the picture up because it renders everything. It’s like the full tonal range of an orchestra, that’s what color I think adds.
As far as making film, when I made the film about my father it was done for an emotional and social purpose first of all. My father was living with Alzheimer and memory loss, and that felt to me, as it did for many in the 90’s, like it was the scourge that was happening to all of our parents. People who had lived through the Great depression and suddenly as they were aging this disease was showing up. We do not know what it is that brought this huge wave into the population of the world, and I thought as a conscious and loving son that if it escaped me as it was actually happening to my father how many millions of people are facing this. So I thought I am going to take my father out of this assisted living environment he was in, take him off his medication and see if I could shake him back into a normal existence and render that on film. It was really a road movie of my son, my father and myself, three generations of the same family, and the idea was to see how does this guy who is so infantile deal with world at its large? Is there something we can learn from seeing this so that we could be better caregivers to our parents or grandparents or whoever was suffering from this illness?
That trip with the three of us from Florida up to New York City back to the Bronx was almost a month long adventure, it was thrilling to see what happened to my father and the way he managed his own illness, the way he could cover it up and how he could still relate to people. The beauty of it was, it is shot on video, broadcast quality cameras of the 90’s, it showed a kind of everyday all through the day kind of life, of how it was like to live with somebody with this affliction and I truly learned a lot from it.
I am now my father’s age from when I made that movie and fortunately for me I don’t have the same disease, but I hope that what I did for him – I actually know that the film was seen by over forty million people worldwide – that it was helpful to understand the predicament he, and other people, found themselves in.
SVB Connected to this question is also the idea of post production and the re-working of images. You worked analogically, was there ever manipulation of the image during the printing process? If not, how do you see this aspect in relation to contemporary photography?
JM I’m a very early user of the digital world. I had one of the very first photoshops in 1991, it was almost a beta, I had a digital print exhibition, the first of its kind in any museum at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1993 and even before that in 1968- 69 I had the color enlarger in my own darkroom in NYC, printing 35 mm color and later on shooting 8 by 10 large format. I was making contact prints, I made probably 30.000 color prints myself. So I was an early advocate, because after all technology is what’s moved photography along, it’s a science as well as an artform so when the science aspect of it keeps on adding new devices to it it’s important to pay attention to those things. And I don’t mean just getting new cameras all the time, but in its larger form, how does this medium keep getting better and more interesting. So my 40 years of being in the darkroom gave me the tools to work in digital, I use photoshop exclusively now, I have given up the darkroom, 40 years of chemistry, chance and dark was enough, I prefer to sit at a big monitor and make my adjustments, just as I did in the darkroom, because there you interrupt the stream of light with your hands or filters, in photoshop you do the same thing. I am so deeply connected to a kind of critical sense of the reality of things that I don’t exaggerate, I shoot in a very flat way with a full rendering of what’s in front of me because I want it to be believable, I want the viewer to trust that what I am showing them is the beauty of the everyday world, not some kind of fantasy realm where I pushed things to make them overdramatized. That’s the kind of thing that, when I see it in other people’s work, I think why are you subjecting us to this kind of falsity.
So I am very disciplined in my use of digital materials and tools.
SVB Relating to our current time, I remember reading in one of you interviews about the naivety that belonged to the sixties, in which fame was not something everyone could get, and thus the role of the photographer was different from today. I would like to explore with you the idea of control: with the rise of selfies, of an aesthetic narrative that we can construct ourselves though social media, where is the role of the photographer? How does he-she navigate this new possibility given to literally anyone?
JM There is a big difference. Carrying a camera on your phone and using it is not the same discipline as someone who carries a camera around, using it by looking through the lens, setting exposure. It’s a very serious endevor and it takes a kind of discipline to work with it and to believe that what you are seeing and what you subsequently say will allow you to make a print as big as you want, 6 or 8 feet, to be in that moment of time creates each time a specific picture.
It’s really about being there and being conscious in the moment whereas there is a sort of generalizing product that the phone makes. The phone in itself is imperfect, people move it while holding it, the edges aren’t precise etc. While with the camera, that frame is an articulate space that you are filling with your identity, and after all photography is a search for your persona, your character, and your poetry, is not a generic device like a smartphone which you wave around and click. A real photo takes a real intelligence, one that you do know, and you deepen, and select a picture and then print it. There is an ongoing discipline that allows for the photographer and the photograph to become one, so that when people see a thousand of your pictures they can say ‘that’s a Cartier Bresson’, they recognize the way of looking at the world. And that is truly, where the artform is positioned.
The clarification of your own sense of meaning, the understanding of the reality of the time you are living, these are all a combined integrated effort on the part of the photographer.
SVB What do you consider a precious advice to offer to emerging photographers today?
JM I would say that we human beings have as part of our species intelligence and instinct.
If your instinct is to respond when you are out in the world, when something makes you turn your head, that is your instinct speaking directly to you, the person next to you will not have the same response, you have to learn to recognize and respect your instinct as a measure to your own identity.
Learn how to listen to it and turn your camera there at that moment, that is the path towards understanding who you are and how photography can be yours precisely.
SVB Last question. Is there a picture you wish you would have taken but never did?
JM Yes there was.
In 1996 I spent a year in Europe. I was driving through Ireland and I was on some country road with hedgerows as tall as 12 -14 feet, driving in a car that had American steering in it. I was going around a blind curve and above me, on top of the hedgerows, a man leaned on the wooden fence and vaulted over the fence flying the 10 feet down to the road with his arms extended and his coat flapping.
I was coming around the corner and had the camera on my lap, because I photographed from the moving car, but I couldn’t manage the turn, the traffic and the camera on time.
He was Christ like, in the way he descended to the ground and he landed absolutely beautifully, arms out.
He is forever mid flying in my mind, I hold him there dear, as the one picture that I did not manage to take.That’s my sense of a lost moment.
In order of appearance
- Dominique, Provincetown, 1981
- Chuckie, Provincetown, 1979
- Paris, 1967
- New York City, 1963
- Barcelona, 2015
- Along the Banks of the Yanngtse, 1978
- Achill Island, Ireland, 1966
Daidō Moriyama
Daisuke Yokota on Daidō Moriyama
In 2006, after graduating from a vocational school, I wandered aimlessly without a job, but I continued taking photographs.
At that time, there was a lot of debate about digital vs. analog, a typical binary opposition that arises during transitional periods. Being a darkroom enthusiast, I was completely on the analog side, thinking I would never use a digital camera in my life. But to be honest, there was no clear reason behind this; it was merely an attachment to what I had been doing and a kind of small faith in the photographers I admired.
I had plenty of time, but I had no idea what to do or how to move forward. The only thing I could do was submit my work to competitions.
During my time at school, Kōtarō Iizawa visited as a special lecturer and advised us to apply to as many competitions as possible. If we got no recognition at all, we should reconsider our path. Being a relatively serious student, I followed his advice and applied to as many competitions as I could. I thought at least one of them would accept my work, but in the end, I was rejected from all of them.
For about two years, I remained unemployed, living at home, and calling myself a photographer without any achievements or connections—plenty of time to feel anxious about the future.
I realized that something had to change. So, I decided to educate myself by visiting museums and bookstores in Tokyo. But I had no money, so I couldn’t buy books. Instead, I collected flyers from bookstores, taking multiple copies—one for myself and one to give to friends. This was a nostalgic habit from that era, something I rarely do now.
I can’t remember where I found it, but I still clearly remember the flyer. It was unusually long and horizontal, with a symmetrical mirrored photograph printed on both sides. The deep black image was vague and abstract, carrying an eerie atmosphere. It read: “Goodbye Photography, reissued early 2006!”
“Goodbye Photography” (Shashin yo Sayonara) was a legendary photobook that had always been displayed in the glass cases of secondhand bookstores. I don’t remember the exact price, but it was definitely not something I could afford. I was too timid to ask the shop clerk about it, so I have never actually seen a first edition copy in person.
When I learned that this phantom-like photobook was being reissued, I got excited and came up with a personal plan:
I would go to the book signing event at NADiff in Omotesando, get Daido Moriyama’s autograph, and use that as a turning point. I would completely abandon my analog film style and start anew with a digital camera.
Like many photography students, I had unconsciously developed an absolute standard of what “Moriyama-esque” photography should be. Attending the event was my way of breaking free from that influence—my own symbolic farewell to Daido Moriyama.
Although the idea may seem foolish or even rude, to a young man struggling with his future, it was not a joke. It was a small ritual for independence, something I took seriously at the time.
I don’t remember whether there was a talk show at the signing event; I was too nervous. As I waited in line, I watched Moriyama greet each guest with a few words and a handshake.
What should I say to him?
I must have been desperately thinking about that. When my turn came, I stood there speechless.
In my panic, I stretched out my trembling hand and, without meaning to, gripped his hand too tightly. He must have noticed my tension because he firmly squeezed my hand in return. I was deeply moved.
I decided not to open the book I had just bought. Since I had gone there to sever my ties with Moriyama’s influence, allowing myself to be further affected would have defeated the purpose. In the end, I didn’t look at the book for more than ten years.
Now, I realize something surprising—I don’t own any other Moriyama photobooks besides “Goodbye Photography.”
Back when I was most obsessed with his work, I had no money, so I only read his autobiographies and essays. For photobooks, I relied on browsing at bookstores, borrowing from friends, or visiting libraries.
By the time I started buying more photobooks, I had already performed my farewell ritual, and naturally, I distanced myself from Moriyama’s work.
Why didn’t I buy them?
To young photographers who are debating whether to buy a photobook: if you can, I strongly recommend making the effort to get it.
One more memory just came back to me—there was a photobook called Hokkaido that I used to contemplate buying at the secondhand bookstore Hyakunen in Kichijoji.
It was a large book, expensive, and a bit heavy to carry home. Every time I went to the store, I told myself, “Maybe next time.” I kept putting it off until, eventually, I missed my chance.
Moriyama was around 40 when he shot Hokkaido. Now that I’m almost the same age, I can’t think of a more fascinating book for me at this moment.
I was worried that I might not find a copy anywhere, but after checking, I discovered that a few bookstores still have it. I’ll order it immediately.
And with this, I’ll take another deep look at Moriyama’s work once again.
DJ Hell
Gigolo Living
We are all International Deejay Gigolos! In this exclusive feature, the iconic Helmut Geier, aka DJ Hell, reflects on the rise of his game-changing label—one of the most influential in recent history.
Andrea Bratta Hi Helmut, where are you now?
Helmut Geier Most of the time, I’m here in Bavaria, but today I’m on my way to Düsseldorf for an exhibition at a museum tonight. There’s a well-known German actor named Lars Indinger, and he’s about to release his second photo book. He takes photos using his mobile phone, and the collection is being showcased at one of the top museums in Düsseldorf. It’s fascinating how his photography has evolved into an art form that intrigues others. His photos capture everyday life, but in very unusual and striking moments, which makes his work stand out. Interestingly, he’s also ventured into the techno scene and even became a techno teacher. I’ve played alongside him quite a bit, so in a way, I’ve become something of a mentor or guide for him in this field, given my experience. He’s a highly regarded actor, known for his work in theater and cinema, with an international reputation. But now, he’s diving into photography and exploring the club world, making a genuine effort to connect and produce quality music. It’s all new territory for him, but we’ve been collaborating on a lot of shows together lately.
AB I guess this is not something new for you, the mentoring bit.
HG Well, no, it isn’t. With Gigolo, I’ve discovered many unknown artists who later became quite famous. There’s a long list of them—people who got their first release on Gigolo Records and were mentored by me. I tried to help them gain more recognition and exposure. This was all back in the ’90s, long before Instagram and social media existed.
AB The Internet has definitely made things a lot easier. But at the same time, I feel like it caused the concept of “scenes” to fade away. What you achieved with Gigolo Records started in a very specific place—Bavaria, Munich—and then grew to have a global impact in the electronic music world. How did you manage that transition, taking something so localized and expanding it worldwide?
HG The way you framed it immediately brings Giorgio Moroder to mind. He was an Italian living in Munich, and he created the blueprint for house and techno music with Donna Summer. The track I Feel Love—especially the 15-minute Patrick Cowley remix from 1976 or 1977—completely changed the world. I was living in Munich at the time, and that track influenced me more than I realized at the time. What’s fascinating is how, at the same time disco was becoming a global phenomenon, punk music was emerging in England and also changing the world. I think that duality—the rise of disco and punk—laid the foundation for what eventually became the concept of Gigolo Records. I was deeply fascinated by punk, not just the music but the energy, the attitude, and the distinctive look of the punk community. I wouldn’t call it fashion because that wasn’t the point; it was more like a uniform or a symbol. You could immediately recognise someone’s musical taste or affiliations just by how they looked. Disco had a similar kind of identity and symbolism.
Back then, I was going to punk concerts while also frequenting disco clubs, listening to DJs who were already playing dance music. Without knowing it, I was absorbing all these influences—punk, disco, and their distinct aesthetics—and it shaped my perspective. Looking back, I think the seeds of Gigolo Records were already growing in me during those years, almost 20 years before I even started the label. It was this fusion of different genres and scenes that became the foundation for what I later created.
AB When did all the unknown-known seeds from your experiences—as a music listener, fashion enthusiast, and art lover—finally come together and blossom into your vision for Gigolo?
HG My journey to starting a label wasn’t a straight path. In the early ’90s, I worked as an A&R manager for Logic Records in Frankfurt, whose main act was Snap!—you know, The Power and Rhythm Is a Dancer. It was a very successful and commercial operation, and while I learned a lot about the business—how to operate in the higher levels of the music industry, how to market and sell music—I didn’t enjoy it. I came from the underground, from the avant-garde, from the streets and clubs. I wasn’t interested in just selling music, or myself. Back then, I swore I’d never run my own record label because it felt like it would be all business—office work and endless details—which wasn’t my world. I saw myself as an artist, not a businessman.
But everything changed a few years later. I was on tour with Jeff Mills—we traveled the world together many times and became, and still are, very good friends. One day, on a flight to New York, we were playing at the Palladium, Jeff said to me, “Hell, it’s time for you to start your own label.” He joked that we were all like “DJ Gigolos,” traveling the world, staying in five-star hotels, flying business class, and getting attention everywhere we went. That “Gigolo” idea stuck with me. When I eventually decided to follow his advice, I thought about what to name the label, and the phrase “International DeeJay Gigolo Records” came to mind. That’s how it all started.
When I launched the label in 1996 or 1997, I already had a global network of people sending me incredible demos—unreleased, amazing music. I realized Jeff was right: it was time, and I knew how to do it. But I wanted to do it my way. I ignored the traditional rules of the music business and set out to create my own. And that was the beginning.
I was 100% a fashion lover—completely addicted to it, and I still am. Back in the day, I told my mother she could take a photo of me every single day for an entire year, and I’d have a different look each time. Fashion, music, and art were always my top priorities, and I was determined to connect these three worlds into one cohesive vision. In hindsight, I think I was pretty successful in tying it all together: music, visuals, graphic design, fashion, and art –Even in the way I approached promotion, distribution, and marketing.
AB I think that’s exactly what you managed to achieve. When I think of Gigolo Records, my mind doesn’t associate it with just a label, but more to a lifestyle, an ethos –An early aughts Electroclash living. Of course, music stands right at the core, but Gigolo brought together so many genres and forms of expression over the years. I’m thinking about the early days when it helped define electroclash, the New York City moments, and all the different musical evolutions the label went through. I see echoes of Gigolo’s attitude and legacy in some of the newer artists and scenes, a similar spirit, blending genres and embracing that bold, unapologetic energy. To me, they feel like they’re tapping into the electroclash ethos, borrowing from the influence Gigolo had on labels like Ed Banger or the broader musical progress that emerged in the early 2000s.
HG About 15 or 20 years ago, I was really happy to open doors for labels like Ed Banger in Paris or Kitsuné, and others that followed the path of Gigolo. They caught the vibe and ran with it. Ed Banger, for example, was the hot label in 2005 and 2006—they were on fire. They released hip-hop, funk-inspired tracks, and artists like Mr. Oizo, blending so many styles. It was a huge moment in music. With Gigolo, I always made it clear to my artists that there were no limits. You could create whatever you wanted, and if I believed in it, I would release it—even if nobody else liked it or if it wouldn’t sell. I didn’t care about profit. I cared about supporting the artist. I would push them, book them for shows, and even insist that they open for me at clubs, whether promoters wanted them or not. It was about giving them a platform and sharing their art. Electroclash is another thing I’m very proud of—it was a defining moment for Gigolo. In 2002, it was absolutely ruling the world. Artists from all over came together, and it was this incredible explosion of creativity, genre-bending, and breaking barriers. What excites me now is seeing the new generation rediscovering that energy. Young producers and DJs are embracing the same atmosphere, sound, and ethos of no limitations. Artists like Red Axes and many labels on the rise today are carrying forward that spirit. Their sets reflect the Gigolo philosophy—where everything is allowed. They even play old Gigolo tracks, and it’s amazing how timeless they still sound. Tracks by Bobby Konders, Dopplereffekt, Terence Fixmer, Vitalic, and so many others still feel as fresh as ever. With over 350 releases in the Gigolo catalog, I’m now focused on bringing that music back. We’re working on getting the back catalog fully uploaded to platforms like Beatport, and there are lots of vinyl reissues in the pipeline. It’s exciting to see this music reaching a new audience while still inspiring the old one.
AB Are you planning on bringing back the legendary Gigolo Nights ?
HG That’s the next step, exactly—bringing back Gigolo Nights. Back then, we had the Bavarian Gigolo Night and the Berlin Gigolo Night. Festivals would invite me to curate a Gigolo stage, and we always made it something special. We had unique lighting, visuals, and a mix of live acts and DJs—it was never the same thing. What made it stand out was the unpredictability. You’d never know what to expect. It wasn’t just a DJ playing tracks; there was always something dynamic happening on stage. Different musical styles blended together, and we aimed to create a real experience, not just a performance. People loved it because it felt alive and fresh every time.Of course, I’ll probably never reach those insane moments again—like when A List rappers showed up at a Gigolo event, or Brian Ferry, or even the time I had the chance to work with artists like the Pet Shop Boys. There was a time when I could bring almost any artist I wanted to Gigolo, and that’s something I’ll always be proud of. But who knows? Maybe with these reissues and the renewed energy around the catalog, it’s time to create something just as iconic for this generation.
AB I imagine the crazy stories..
HG Yeah, wins, and losses. But even the losses were iconic in their own rights. I remember a specific release, Hooked on Radiation, produced by KLF’s Jimmy Cauty, by a band called Atomizer. It totally sounded like a new KLF track, I was so excited because it felt like a fresh KLF release after all those years of silence. I was so confident this was going to change the UK market, so I pre-ordered 10,000 vinyls, thinking people would go crazy when they realized KLF was behind it. But in the end, it didn’t take off the way I expected. Still, it was one of those unique moments where something unexpected happened—KLF suddenly popped up in the mix, and I was thrilled to release that music. Then there were bands like Fischerspooner… I mean, we could talk for hours about all of this.
AB Even in terms of art direction, the visuals and the look of it, like the iconic Schwarzenegger logo that later evolved into the naked chick logo—it still feels incredibly contemporary today. I’m seeing a lot of graphic designers and labels now repurposing that vibe. It’s clear how much influence that had.
HG These days, no one wants to truly invest in graphic design or unique looks, but back in the day, I paid attention to every little detail. Even when we sent out a white label or promo, it had to look special. I put a lot of time into it, because first and foremost, I had to believe in it, and then people would believe in it too. Every single thing that went out—whether it was an email, a fax, or any promo—was always handled with care, with an artistic touch, and fully connected to the music and the artist. Every cover, every release, was carefully crafted, making sure it felt special. I took great care of everything.
AB Were you working with any particular studio back then?
HG No, the process was much more spontaneous and immediate: Whenever I found an interesting artist or saw something unique, no matter where they were from, I would immediately reach out and propose collaborations. There was always exciting stuff happening around the world. I was doing as many as 200 shows a year, and there were always fascinating graphic designers in Japan, amazing covers in Australia, or unique analog releases from someone in Italy. It never stopped. There was so much attention, and I was always on the lookout for new things or ideas that weren’t out there yet. I was deeply involved in every cover, every release, every B-side, and the distribution and marketing strategies. I always had a strong vision for how to approach things.
AB I’m picking up a kind of Warholian vibe here. I think I read somewhere on Resident Advisor that they, correctly, imho, pointed out that Gigolo was, in a way, for Berlin what the Factory was for New York. What were the scenes like in those two cities? Were they different, or were they starting to converge in some way?
HG A lot of people try to compare Berlin and New York, but in reality, there’s no similarity. Everything was totally different. When Berlin became the mecca for a new generation of electronic music, everyone wanted to move there or copy its sound and look. Without Berghain, for instance, the techno revolution wouldn’t have unfolded the way it did. Back in the ’90s, Berlin was maybe the most futuristic city in terms of thinking and partying. There were no limits; you could go all weekend long. There was so much free space and no rules. Everyone did what they wanted, and it was all about freedom. Of course, it’s changed now, but it’s still the number one city for electronic music. I was there in the early ’90s, working at a record store called Hardwax, buying and selling vinyl. That gave me a direct connection with the earliest Berlin techno producers, DJs, and the emerging club scene. I was immersed in that world, helping to build this new electronic and club music culture. There are a lot of books and documentaries about that era, but I’m proud to have been part of it, shaping the nightlife. I played at places like Tresor, Electro, WMF, and others that don’t exist anymore. I was even a resident DJ at the iconic E-Werk, which, to me, was the blueprint for every other club that followed. It was a unique place, and the crowd wasn’t international at all—it was mostly local Berliners. In the ’90s, Berlin was considered a dangerous place by tourists. People said to avoid places like Kreuzberg or East Berlin at night. But to me, it was never dangerous; it was just an unpolished, gritty city. No one wanted to visit, but those who did found themselves part of something really special. I’m proud to have been there, building the scene. By the mid-’90s, I was traveling to other countries, becoming an ambassador for Berlin techno and its unique energy.
AB Those were the years someone from my generation still reveres as the years of real techno.
HG Exactly, When they started bringing in the Detroit and Chicago legends, it was a game changer. You had the pioneers of Detroit techno and house, like Derrick May and Juan Atkins, alongside Chicago’s house masters, plus legends from New York. It was like a whole new world opening up—an explosion of sound and culture that had never been heard before. It felt like the biggest revolution in electronic music, and I’m proud to have been part of it. The energy, the sound, and the sense of community during that time were truly groundbreaking.
AB Well, Underground Resistance said this best with their Afrogermanic track, no words needed. It was a pivotal period.
HG But, I mean, we didn’t think it was crazy or revolutionary at the time. We didn’t know where it was headed. Nobody thought it was going to change the world or dominate the music scene. Seriously, no one thought that way. People were saying it was just a summer hype, a very limited community, and that this music wouldn’t last. They thought something else would come along. There was always talk about what the future might hold, but nobody imagined that techno would still be around in 2024 or 2025.
AB And here we are: Techno has never been this big, and mainstream. You lived in New York for different periods. What drove you there, and not in places like Detroit, who had a much more evident link with Berlin, at least music-wise?
HG I knew that in Detroit, there was no nightlife, no real club scene—nothing happening. The city itself was in a rough state in the ’90s; no restaurants, no cafes, just darkness with a lot of homelessness. It was really the last place to be. I went there to meet legends like Jeff, Matt Mike, Submerged, Carl Craig, and others who were my heroes. I also had the chance to play with Kevin Saunderson in Chicago and did some parties with Richie Hawtin in Windsor. I visited, but there was never a thought of living there or doing anything long-term in Detroit.I did have an idea in 2014, though—a German producer like me going to Detroit, living there, and working with underground resistance, Moodymann, Derrick May, and all those guys to produce a techno album. I went for two months and came back with just one track that’ll never see the light of day. I wanted to be the German outsider working with the originators of techno in Detroit, but it didn’t work out. New York, on the other hand, has always been my city. I wasn’t just a tourist; I was involved in the club scene in the early ’90s, and it felt like no other place. I remember playing at Palladium in front of 5,000 people. The Limelight, an old church turned into a techno hall, had this dark, exotic atmosphere with secret parties happening upstairs.New York had this magnetic power that drew me in, and I was lucky to be there, playing techno music. Jeff and I were residents at Limelight, and I even did some producing there. New York’s nightlife was heavily influenced by places like Studio 54, Tunnel, and Webster Hall, where thousands of people would party every weekend. I was highly respected in the scene as a German techno DJ because I brought something different to the table. I lived there for a year in 1993, then returned in 2004 to produce the album New York Muscle.
AB I guess with Gigolo’s evolution, and electroclash’s rise, you were also going for something that didn’t feel strictly “German” anymore, but rather this hybrid of global influences, like something that could exist anywhere.
HG You are in one of the most powerful, energetic cities in the world like New York: You’re bound to create different art and music. I remember during that time, there was a war going on in Afghanistan, and we were watching it on the news every day. It deeply influenced me, the atmosphere of it all—the aggression, the danger of the situation. It was an incredibly uncomfortable feeling, like never knowing what might happen next. There was always police at the train stations, and something was always happening. That tension, that constant energy, definitely seeped into the music I was creating during that time.
AB 2003 Was also immediately post-9/11 NYC, it must have been..complicated to say the least.
HG It was very present. People were still shocked by it, and it was everywhere. I was living near Ground Zero, in a hotel called the Trabeck, a grand hotel. It was within walking distance, and in 2004 or 2005, there was still a huge hole where the towers had fallen. People were still in shock. It was nothing like before—it changed everything. New York totally transformed after September 11, 2001.
AB On a lighter note, let’s go back to fashion because it’s been such a big part of your life. You’ve worked on so many shows—Versace, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga. What’s it like working on music for a runway show? How is it different from selecting music for a club?
HG That’s a totally different piece of art, for sure. When I do what’s called catwalk music for a 15 to 70-minute show, I really connect with the designer and their concept. It’s very important that the music doesn’t overpower the vision of the designer—it should fit seamlessly into their concept. There are a lot of meetings before the actual work begins. It’s not just about me putting together a mix for them to use. It’s a back-and-forth process, because the designers know exactly what they want, including the music. They’re very hands-on. For example, when Demna from Balenciaga asked me to get involved in one of their art projects, he told me that he loved my early 90s analog hardcore techno stuff. He asked me to create a 45-minute mix of hard techno, acid, and analog productions. I was a bit hesitant because, when I listen to that music now, I hear how raw it was. At the time, I was trying to get closer to the Detroit sound or do something unique. But I didn’t have the gear—the analog keyboards, drum machines—so I did the best I could with what I had. Some of the sounds are pretty digital, even though they were meant to be analog, and the production level was very middle class, I’d say. Back then, I didn’t have the knowledge to do it the best way; there was no computer or fancy gear. It was all live recording. Some of the sounds came out great, but others were rough. But at that time, we just released it. Compared to today’s digital sound and modern production techniques, it feels old-school.I understand Demna’s vision though, and I see why he liked it. Not a lot of people were into that style at the time. Then, a year later, he used Sunglasses at Night for one of his fashion shows—the cover by BFRND. I was shocked! Sunglasses at Night is such an iconic track, Tige released it on Gigolo back in the days, it was itself a great cover version of the original by Corey Hart. But, like a lot of music that’s been overplayed, you sort of reach a point where you’re not as excited to hear it anymore. It was fascinating that Balenciaga picked it for their show.
AB What are your favourite designers?
HG One name, very easy: Martin Margiela. There were times when he released a new collection, and I felt like every piece, every shoe, every shirt, every coat, was made just for me. It totally fits my personality, my style, my DJing, and my travels. I was seriously obsessed with it. The interesting part was mixing those pieces with second-hand clothes and military uniforms—jackets, shoes, all of that. For many years, Margiela was the ultimate brand for me. And when he moved on, I started looking for something new, and of course, I jumped into Deman, his work with Vetements before and then Balenciaga. I also loved Boris Saberi, a lot, and I can’t forget Rick Owens.
AB You also collaborated with Kostas Murkudis, right?
HG He was so good! Sad he’s not doing his own brand anymore.
AB I also read that you’re working as the designated curator for the Museum of Modern Electronic Music, in Frankfurt. I imagine it’s not too different from what you’re used to doing, in a way, right?
HG I was involved in the concept and ideas many years ago when they first tried to open it. The idea started around eight to ten years ago, but they didn’t have the financial backing to rent the place and renovate it, so it took about five to eight years with many concepts and ideas. Finally, they opened, and I visited about two years ago. I was really surprised at how great it looked and how well they’re managing the museum. It’s really cool. I did an interview there and had a small exhibition. They’re doing a great job, but they should definitely get more attention because it’s an amazing museum that showcases a lot of electronic music culture. There should be more exhibitions about this culture—the machines, the cover arts, the visual art, the music itself. There’s so much you can display in a gallery or museum, and they’ve done it really well.
AB One last question— we talked about how the techno and electronic music world used to be very insular, with its own scenes and places. There was a sense of differentiation back then. But fast forward to today, and there’s essentially one big global scene. How do you feel about that? Do you think there’s been too much standardization in electronic music, especially in terms of festivals and parties?
HG I don’t agree with the idea that it’s just one scene. It’s split into many different scenes, and right now, there’s a lot of discussion happening, with people expressing diverse opinions. Old-school figures are giving interviews or posting on social media, saying it doesn’t feel right or cool to be a DJ anymore. After the pandemic, everything changed, and suddenly so many artists or DJs with little artistic thinking are successful, mostly because of their social media presence. It’s not about the music anymore, and that’s the big conversation. But I wouldn’t say it’s just one scene. It’s interesting to see hard techno or hardcore techno becoming very successful and popular. I think it’s misnamed, though. To me, this isn’t techno. It’s just entertainment, dance music, or whatever you want to call it. One person referred to it as “the new EDM,” and I think that description fits perfectly. On the other hand, I get why young people are championing it, especially since many of them were locked out for two or three years during the pandemic. Now, they go to hard techno parties, and it’s getting more attention than ever. The downside is seeing all these DJs with zero talent becoming popular. It’s clear when you analyze it—there’s no real artistry. They’re in it just for success, for money, or maybe they don’t even know why they’re doing it. I’ve been in this scene for 40 years, so I watch it from a distance, more as an observer. I don’t take it too seriously, and I don’t have time to listen to bad music. I’m focused on preparing for my own shows, working on new music, and continuing to do my thing. I still aim to surprise people with my sets, mixing different genres and keeping it fresh. I don’t need to be part of this hard techno scene. I do play techno sets, but when I do, they’re in my own style—mixing analog techno with new digital sounds, deeply influenced by Detroit techno and great new producers. There’s so much good music out there that I don’t have time for all the noise. I just call it Kabuki techno or EDM techno—it’s like a circus to me, and I find it kind of funny. I don’t go to these hard techno parties; I only see them on social media, and I’ve never been there myself. I’m too deep into my work in the studio, producing, remixing, and working on new albums. I don’t have time to focus on that scene. But I do understand the frustration. A lot of legendary old-school DJs aren’t getting bookings anymore, and people don’t pay attention to their work. They’re still doing great stuff, but they’re being overlooked, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. I totally get that frustration.
AB Still, there’s an underground that’s alive and kicking, although maybe differently than it used to.
HG To me, electronic music has always been avant-garde. It’s always been about pushing boundaries. You never cared about how much you were going to sell or what the current trend was. The focus was always on experimentation. That’s how it was done, especially in Germany. It was about creating something new, something unique—whether it was with sounds, rhythms, or production techniques. As an artist, the drive was always about exploring new elements, constantly pushing the envelope. That was the secret force behind creating techno music.
Credits
Talent · Helmut Geier
Photography · Maximilian Attila Bartsch
Short Film · Johannes Häußler
Styling · Elisa Schenke
Grooming · Ana Buvinic
Designers
- Leather jacket and Trousers T/SEHNE, Shoes BOTTEGA VENETA
- Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
- Full Look BOTTEGA VENETA
- Suit and Shoes ANN DEMEULEMEESTER, Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
- Full Look MM6 MAISON MARGIELA
Christ Dillinger
Making Music In My Sleep
Fame isn’t what it used to be. NYC Virtuoso Christ Dillinger dissects the illusion of underground music in the streaming era, and the strange paradox of modern celebrity—where millions of plays don’t always mean real influence. Is true artistic independence still possible, or has the industry absorbed every rebel into its algorithmic machine? A raw, unfiltered take on music, control, and the fight to stay real.
Andrea Bratta I’m just gonna get straight to it: I loved that you rapped over house beats. There’s something so nostalgic about it — it loops all the way back around and lands as something totally fresh.
Christ Dillinger In 2020, I linked up with PartyBoy. We started talking, and he was the one who told me my voice would sound great over dance beats like this.Between 2019 and now, me and PartyBoy actually made four or five different songs—probably even more. He sent me a bunch of beats, I produced some, and we went back and forth, crafting tracks that were similar to what you guys are hearing now.. But PartyBoy’s a perfectionist, and so am I, so none of those early songs ever came out. The first one we both agreed was a hit was Hoe—that’s the one we finally dropped. And that song blew up.
After that, I started doing shows with him, meeting DJs, and getting deeper into dance music. It felt like having him co-sign me really solidified my place in that world. He also helped me refine my beat selection—picking tracks that matched my voice and my rap style better. I gotta give a huge shout-out to him. Not only is he one of my best friends, but he also played a big role in helping me perfect my sound and develop a better ear for quality dance music. There’s a lot of dance music out there, but not all of it is good, you know? When it comes to house music, my biggest influences have always been legends like Frankie Knuckles, Gypsy Woman, and disco-heavy sounds. I’ve always loved disco—Bee Gees, Donna Summer, all of that. I also really fuck with James Brown. When I make a house track, I want to bring that same energy—like James Brown commanding a stage. I want the performance to feel alive, where I’m rapping every lyric, dancing, and making people feel the music. Even if someone doesn’t catch every word, they can vibe with how I ride the beat, keeping everything high-energy and uptempo.
That’s the approach I take—melding funk with dance music. Even if the beats don’t always reflect that directly, the way I attack them does. I want my words to hit like James Brown, snapping you into the groove. So even if you’re not catching every lyric, the rhythm and energy keep you locked in, just riding the tempo.
AB Yeah, it’s like another element—another instrument. You use it as part of the beat, shaping the rhythm in its own way
CD I go out a lot in New York, and I gravitate toward places that play house music. I don’t really go to rap shows, except for a few artists I personally like. If one of my friends is performing, I always show up. But when I’m going out on a Friday or Saturday night to have fun, I prefer clubs that play good house or dance music.
I listen to a lot of DJs, especially underground artists in New York and beyond—people who aren’t widely known but are killing it in the scene. There are clubs in New York that fly under the radar, places people don’t really talk about, even though house music is one of the biggest genres worldwide. It’s still not mainstream in America, despite having a strong fan base. The average person on the street might not know much about it, but the culture is thriving.
There’s this one club, Gabriella, in Williamsburg—it’s a great spot for house music. It’s a dream of mine to perform there one day. I spend a lot of time going out and listening to DJs in person, watching how people react to their sets. That helps me refine the style of house beats I want to work with.
One of the biggest turning points for me recently was meeting a producer named CP. I started a group with him—he’s in Bass Negative Squad with me. Besides Party Boy and my friend Varg, he’s one of the only producers who can make the exact type of dance beats I love to rap over. The moment I met CP, I made the entire Nuke in the Club album, and right after that, Evil in the Club—we just clicked creatively. He’s also one of my best friends in real life, which makes collaborating effortless.
CP was a huge catalyst for me putting out more dance music. I’ll never stop making house music with him—he’s my go-to.
You can really feel that chemistry on the record. It almost plays like a DJ set—the way the tracks flow seamlessly into each other. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous, immersive experience.
AB That record almost feels like a DJ set—the way it flows seamlessly from track to track. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous beat.
CD Yeah, that’s something I’ve always been drawn to. I grew up listening to a lot of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix, and one of my favorite things about their albums is how they flow together with no gaps. Back then, they had to record everything in the studio as a continuous piece, and I love that approach. Albums like Late Registration and The College Dropout by Kanye West do the same thing—everything connects from start to finish.
When I make my albums, I structure them the same way. All the beats and songs are connected, and I lay them out in Ableton as one long 20-minute project. I actually rap the whole thing in one go, then go back and cut the tracks up for streaming platforms like Spotify. But if you listen on SoundCloud or YouTube, I always upload the full 20-minute version because that’s how the project was meant to be heard.
House music, to me, is made for long-form listening. It’s not meant to be chopped up into short, digestible clips for TikTok or whatever. The house sets I love—DJ mixes that last two hours or more—take you on a journey. When you’re in the club, there’s that warm-up phase, then maybe an acid house section where things get weird and intense, and eventually, the DJ resolves it, bringing you back into the groove. That tension and release are what make house music special.
But in today’s world, because of streaming and the way music is marketed, artists are pushed to make two- or three-minute tracks. I get that, but I prefer making 10- or 20-minute songs. I haven’t made a 30-minute track yet, but I definitely will at some point. That’s why I upload my house projects as a full-length piece—because that’s how they were created, and that’s how they should be experienced.
AB Yeah, my first encounter with the record was through YouTube, so I got to experience it that way. And for me, growing up, going to clubs was always about house music—or even techno—but house was really at the core of it. A lot of the house music I was drawn to came from the U.S., with DJs like Frankie Knuckles, as you mentioned, but also Terrence Parker, or even some more ghetto stuff like DJ Deeon, DJ Assault.
CD Shout out to DJ Assault. Big inspo.
AB It’s funny you mentioned how, in the US, especially in places like New York with its rich house scene, there were legendary spots like Paradise Garage where house music was born and grew. The connection between house and rap music is so present. It’s interesting, though, because now in New York, the way people think about club music has changed. But listening to records, especially your rap tracks, I can really feel that influence from house music, and how you’ve been exposed to it. The way DJs play, and the approach to creating art through music, it should be long, intentional, and immersive. I completely agree. I don’t get why, in Milan or other more commercial settings, big DJs only play one-hour sets. It doesn’t make sense to me either. You really need two, maybe three hours, to get into a groove and let the full experience unfold.
CD And also, you know, if you think about how clubs and drugs go together, they kind of create this flow where you’re moving through different emotional states. Like, you need that switch between emotions, that contrast, because that’s what makes it feel real.
AB Yeah, I feel like a lot of people take drugs, and every drug comes with this moment of anxiety—like, that split second where you’re like, Oh shit, am I okay? Am I too high? A lot of drugs give you that feeling where, for a moment, you genuinely think you’re gonna die. And that same kind of tension, that anxiety, I feel like it’s in music too. Or at least, it used to be. But now, a lot of music just skips that part.
CD Exactly. Have you ever heard Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd?
AD Yeah, of course.
CD So the second track, On the Run, that track is basically one of the first times a band used something like an 808, like an electronic bass-driven thing, in a song. But more than that, the whole track is just pure anxiety. It never really resolves—it just builds and builds. And then it flows into Time, which is like this explosion of energy, almost like a resolution. That’s what I think is missing in a lot of music now. Everything is so commercialized, and everyone just focuses on the high-energy, euphoric moments—the climax—but they leave out the anxiety, the tension. And that’s such a necessary part of life.
AB Yeah, because if you’re only listening to music that’s about the high, the come-up, the happy parts, then it starts to feel disconnected from real life. Like, we can flood ourselves with dopamine all day—whether it’s through social media, music, drugs, whatever—but eventually, you’re gonna hit a low. And if the art you consume doesn’t reflect that full spectrum of emotion, you end up feeling kind of detached from your own experience.
CD Exactly. I feel like people don’t even fully understand sadness anymore because they don’t sit with it. Like, no one really sits with their thoughts anymore. The second you’re alone, you pull out your phone, you start scrolling, and suddenly you’ve got a million different people’s emotions hitting you all at once. No one’s really in touch with themselves. And I think long-form music—stuff that takes time, that forces you to sit in it—kind of helps restore that. It trains your brain to seek out deeper, more meaningful experiences instead of just chasing quick dopamine hits.
AB That really hits home for me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I think a lot of people feel it too—this weird paradox where we’re all super connected, but at the same time, it makes us feel lonelier. And when you lose that connection with yourself, you start losing touch with what you actually like, what you actually want.
CD Yeah, 100%. And that’s what I’m trying to do with my music—bring that depth back, create something that really makes people feel. I think that’s why I’ve found the right people to work with too. Like, Party Boy—he’s got that legendary status, especially in Europe, with how close he is to the Berlin scene. And Varg, too—he’s such a huge influence.
AB Yeah, I was at the show in Paris with you and Varg, and the energy there was insane.
CD That’s what I mean—it’s about creating those experiences where people actually feel something real, something beyond just a dopamine hi. It was crazy. I mean, that show was insane. It was sold out, and then we had a line wrapped around the corner, people outside the building the entire night. Kanye came to that show. Yeah, and Ian Connor. Destroy Lonely, too. Kanye actually came. He’s my favorite rapper, so for him to come to one of my shows, where I’m headlining, is honestly insane to me. It still hasn’t fully sunk in—I’m still trying to process it. But yeah, it was wild. I mean, basically, everyone in the city came out.
AB That must have been surreal.
CD It really was. And for me, being from there, it helped me understand how music works, how America works, and even how the world works. Like, I’m a huge Jimi Hendrix fan—he’s the reason I started making music in the first place. And I always think about how his career took off. He toured in the U.S. for a while, but it wasn’t until he went to London that he really blew up. When his music hit Europe, the reaction was insane, and then that hype traveled back to America.
AB And you feel like the same thing is happening to you?
CD Exactly. Ever since I started playing in Europe and working with more European artists, I’ve been getting way more recognition in the States. That Paris show felt like the peak of that. I had just dropped my album, like, a week before, and now I’m playing this massive show during Paris Fashion Week, with all these big names in the crowd. It was honestly crazy.
AB Yeah, I mean, Paris Fashion Week is becoming bigger and bigger, even in a musical sense. Like, I’m from Milan, and I work in Paris for an art gallery, so I split my time—two weeks here, two weeks there. And Milan is just… slower.
CD: Yeah?
AB Especially during Fashion Week. It’s very institutional—big brands doing their shows, and that’s it. Either you’re rich or working for rich people. You go, see the collections, maybe a fancy dinner, but the afterparties are boring. There’s no underground scene, no younger artists doing something exciting. While in Paris, it’s a whole different energy. There are shows like yours happening, real moments.
CD Paris is like the world stage. I felt really lucky to do that show during Fashion Week because all eyes are on Paris. And me headlining the biggest show of the week—it felt like I was showing the world what’s next. And the craziest part is, I’m just this dude from the middle of nowhere in America, you know? I came from the slums. And now I’m up there, performing at Fashion Week, surrounded by legends like Kanye. I wish I could’ve met Anna Wintour, though, just for the experience. Also, Varg took me to the 032c runway show. I had a great time, met the guy who owns the magazine—he was super chill.
AB To think that here in Europe we still dream of New York. Funny.
CD: That’s crazy to hear.
AB Yeah, New York has that mythology around it. And seeing you so hyped and motivated is sick—it feels like you’re in a headspace where you’re just gonna keep making new, better music. So, what’s next? Anything you can spoil?
CD There’s the record that just got out and Yeah, actually—me and Varg have an album coming out next month. Got a song on it with Skrillex. Another one with Mowlola, and Gabe from Uzi. Plus, I just made this song two hours ago. Shit’s crazy how it all comes together sometimes.
AB Damn, man. You’re on fire. How do you manage to be so productive? It’s like project after project, always something new dropping. Do you have a secret or just a mad work ethic?
CD Well, honestly, I’ve got OCD, so I’m always thinking about music. I’m also a little autistic, so I just get obsessed with it. Music’s the only thing I’ve really ever wanted to do since I was a kid, and it’s like I’m constantly creating. I’ve been making music for, like, five years now. I’ve probably made thousands of songs. Every single day, I make at least five songs. That’s just how I work—always making, always creating. Even before I had any fans or any real recognition, I was putting in work. Like, back then, it wasn’t about the hype. It was just about making the music I love. I don’t even really care if people like it. I make it because I’m a fan of myself. I listen to my own stuff, so I need to keep making more to stay engaged. It’s like I’m my biggest fan. But yeah, I try to put all my music out too. I know my manager doesn’t like that—I’m always trying to drop everything I make, which isn’t always the best move. But I just gotta share it. And some of the songs come to me in dreams, which sounds wild, but it’s true.
AB Wait, dreams?
CD Yeah, for real. It’s weird, but I’ll wake up from a dream and a song will just be stuck in my head. I’ve had dreams where I’m literally rapping the whole song, and when I wake up, it’s all there. Like that song “Nick@Nite”—I had a dream where I was rapping that. So I just write it down and record it. A lot of my biggest songs came from dreams like that.
AB That’s actually insane. You’re making music in your sleep. I think you need a “dream producer” tag or something, like “music made while sleeping.”
CD (Laughs) Yeah, honestly, that’s a vibe. But it makes sense, right? I’m always thinking about music. Even when I’m asleep, my mind’s still working on it. That song I just showed you? I heard that in a dream yesterday morning, so I just woke up and made it.
AB That sounds mad. So you’ve got some global vibes with this one. What about that other song you mentioned before we started speaking on the record? The one about King Leopold and Congo?
CD Oh yeah, that’s another crazy track. I just made a song about King Leopold of Belgium and how he enslaved all those people in Congo. The story is pretty wild, and I felt like it needed to be told in a song. It’s heavy, you know? The whole thing about colonization, the suffering—people need to hear about it. It’s messed up, but I think the song can help raise awareness in some way. Honestly, it’s just something I’ve been learning about recently. I’ve been reading more, trying to understand the history and the impact of it all. And I felt like I had to speak on it. You know, a lot of people don’t even know about that part of history. So I wanted to use my platform to shine a light on it. Plus, music’s the best way to make something like that stick in people’s minds. It’s all about making music that speaks to people—whether it’s about personal experiences or something bigger. Just trying to make an impact with every track.when you look at what he did in the Congo, it was one of the most horrific genocides, yet it’s barely mentioned. People always talk about stuff like Ukraine or Palestine, or the Holocaust, but no one really talks about Africa or King Leopold’s reign. I’ve always been thinking about it, which is why I finally made something about it. And funny enough, I was on a plane watching the new Tarzan movie, and they went to the Congo. In that movie, King Leopold’s there, and they show him enslaving Africans. I thought it was crazy they even put that in a Tarzan movie, but no one’s talking about it, you know? It’s like the narrative doesn’t get pushed. It’s almost like they’re hinting at something dark, but they don’t really delve into it. And you’re right—people just don’t engage with it, like they should. The history of Africa, the real atrocities, gets brushed under the rug in favor of more immediate, sensational headlines. But when it comes to things like Palestine, Ukraine, it becomes this thing that trends for a while, and people talk about it, post about it, but it’s all very surface level. It doesn’t really go deeper than the hashtags. And that’s what frustrates me—it’s tragic when people turn suffering into trends. Everything becomes reduced to these soundbites that lack depth, and people just move on to the next thing, desensitized by it all. It’s the same as the way we consume music today, right? Everything’s instant, short, and to the point, but it lacks the substance, the nuance.
AB Yeah, I completely agree. The way we consume tragedies, issues, or even music nowadays is so detached. It’s almost like it’s become a trend instead of something that demands real attention. And when it comes to music, you were saying something about how it could be used to spread information, make people think.
CD Absolutely. I think music is one of the best ways to spread this kind of knowledge, because it stays with people. Like, with Vietnam—people don’t really talk about that war in America anymore, but songs from that era, like “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix, or “All Along the Watchtower,” those songs are about Vietnam, right? And they still live on, because they carried the message, the feeling, the soul of that time. Music sticks in a way that facts don’t. So if you want people to understand something, to feel it in their bones, put it in a song. It’s way more powerful than some hashtag. People remember music, it resonates.
AB Yeah, it’s almost like music makes things more tangible, more real. You can’t escape it, it’s in your head. But, I guess, these days, there’s a lot of pressure on artists to just make quick hits. Do you think the current state of the industry—like the rise of streaming platforms—has hurt music’s potential to spread deeper messages?
CD Oh, for sure. It’s so frustrating. Streaming services, like Spotify, are all about playlists, quick consumption. People don’t listen to albums in full anymore. They just skip through, picking out the TikTok songs, the ones they already know. No one goes through an album and feels the artist’s journey, you know? That’s what’s missing. It’s like a formula now: the label wants everything to be radio-friendly, something that’ll fit into a 3-minute slot, and you can’t really tell a story that way. Back in the day, bands like Pink Floyd made 20-minute songs, they didn’t care if they could play them on the radio. They made art, and people had to come to them for it. That’s the kind of mentality I want to bring back. Music should be something you live with, not just something you consume quickly and forget about.
AB I totally get that. It’s about the journey, the narrative. Do you think the internet and platforms like SoundCloud gave artists more freedom before they were overtaken by the mainstream industry? Could that be a way forward, going back to that sense of independence?
CD Exactly. SoundCloud was this great place where artists could be free, release what they wanted, and build a real following. But now it’s like the industry realized, “Oh, these underground artists are getting attention,” so they started swooping in and taking control. They’ve commercialized it, just like they did with the mainstream. It’s like real estate—labels buy up artists like properties, hoping one of them makes it big, and in the process, they burn all the others. It’s such a messed-up system. I’ve had labels come after me even when I was still underground, offering me deals. They just want to control everything, and it’s frustrating because a lot of artists get lost in that cycle.
AB That’s pretty bleak, but it’s the reality, isn’t it?
CD You have to fight for it, you know? You have to resist the urge to play by their rules. Labels are all about numbers and stats, and they want you to fit into this box. But I refuse to do that. I don’t want to make music for playlists or radio airplay—I want to make music that speaks to people, that has substance. The moment you let yourself get caught up in that system, you lose the art. That’s why I’m focusing on doing things my way. If people want to hear my music, they have to come to me. I’m not putting out short, catchy tunes just to be a part of the trend. I want to create something that lasts, like the songs that captured the essence of their time, like Hendrix or Pink Floyd did. When I make my Congo song, or whatever, it’s not just going to be a quick hit—it’s going to be something with depth, something people can reflect on. . If I’m going to be an artist, I’m not going to do what’s popular. I’m going to put the message in my music, let it live on. No hashtags, no viral moments—just art. If people want the real, they’ll find it in my work. And I think that’s the power of music—if you do it right, it can outlive everything else. My Congo song will be out there forever, long after I’m gone, and that’s what matters. It’s not the same anymore. Back in the day, you’d put out something, and you’d get that natural buzz from people. Now, it’s all about these industry-controlled systems, like playlists and services, to get that same response. The underground, in a way, is being overtaken by all these commercial forces. It’s almost like “underground” is becoming its own genre now, rather than an actual space where artists can grow freely.
AB Do you think the underground still has a role today? Or is it just becoming a category or a label in itself? And what do you think could be a solution moving forward?
CD The underground, right now, doesn’t really exist in the way we think of it. It’s more like a space where artists who aren’t part of the big industry try to make it on their own, but even then, everyone has to play by the industry’s rules now. You have to pitch your music to playlists, do all the same stuff you’d do if you were signed to a label, but without the label’s support. So, the underground has kind of disappeared, especially with the internet. Things are instantly available to everyone, and the concept of underground, in the true sense, is fading. You’ve got to do it your way. If people buy into your art, great. If not, then whatever. The reality is that a lot of artists sign these deals and end up with fake popularity. You look at their numbers, and it’s all playlist-driven. It’s not real. It’s a facade. But in the past, artists were huge because people genuinely loved their work. Nowadays, that doesn’t even seem to happen anymore unless you’re one of the few really big names.
AB Yeah, that’s exactly it. Everything is so fragmented. People’s fame is now just micro-famous, in pockets. Back in the day, being famous meant you were universally known, but now, you could be huge online in one community and barely recognized outside of it. It’s a different world. But it’s given me an idea for a song… Make Being Famous Great Again.
CD Yeah, I love that idea. It’s funny because fame isn’t even lit anymore—it’s all just smoke and mirrors. People are chasing something that doesn’t exist the way it used to. I might have just found the inspiration for another song.
Credits
Talent · Christ Dillinger
Creative Direction · Ioánnes Papadakis, Rita de Rivera and Aina Marcó
Photography · Ioánnes Papadakis
Styling · Aina Marcó from CAMUFLATGE
Set Design · Rita de Rivera from CAMUFLATGE
Movement Director · Leo D’Aquino
Tooth Gems · Juicy Tooth Gems
Retouch · Alex Petrican
Photography Assistant · R.seventeen
Art Assistant · Camélia Bouziyane
Styling Assistant · Shaun Kalani
Tati au Miel
Through the Veil: Tati au Miel’s Sonic Alchemy
Enter the transcendent realm of Tati au Miel, the artistic persona of Tania Daniel. A true multidisciplinary whose practice spans sound, performance, visual art, and technology; Tati au Miel masterfully weaves narratives that explore transformation, identity, and renewal, all while challenging conventional norms. Their practice, deeply informed by spirituality and introspection, bridges the tangible and the ethereal, inviting audiences to navigate the delicate interplay between the personal and the collective, the physical and the digital.
From their debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, which set the tone for their introspective explorations, to the dreamlike audio-visual installations of Rêverie and immersive performances like Formations for Eternity, from Seed to Skin, The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel, the artist reflects a commitment to introspective themes, experimental soundscapes and evocative visuals. An invitation to experience a world that is both deeply personal and universally resonant.
In this conversation with NR, Tati au Miel delves into the inspirations, challenges, and philosophies that fuel their ever-evolving artistic practice. They reflect on the courage required to embrace vulnerability, the intricate relationship between technology and humanity, and their pursuit of turning the ephemeral into something timeless. Discover an artistic vision that transcends boundaries, resonates with the soul, and redefines how we perceive and feel the world around us.
The name Tati au Miel evokes a sense of nurturing quality and creates a contrast with the complex or raw topics tackled within the work. How did it come about?
So interesting because I hadn’t thought of it that way before, as nurturing or creating contrast with the complexity of my work. It actually came about quite naturally. My name is Tania Daniel, and Tati au Miel feels like an evolved version of myself, a reinterpretation of my name. For years, people have called me Tati, and being French Carribean, the association with honey felt intuitive. Honey has a symbolic energy tied to deities and nurturing qualities, so when the name came to me, it just clicked. It wasn’t something I overthought or deliberately planned, it simply felt right.
Your practice spans across sound, visual art, performance, and technology, often blurring the lines between disciplines. How do you navigate the intersections of these mediums, and how does each influence or challenge the others in your creative process? Is there a particular moment or experience where you felt one medium truly transformed or expanded the possibilities of another?
I’ve always approached my work through sound and a sonic lens, which might stem from my struggle with words and writing. Sound feels so immediate and sensory to me. Even though I was never formally trained as a musician, DJing when I was younger became my way into sound creation.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time sewing and designing costumes, which I think influenced my creative process. For example, I would make music and listen to it while sewing, letting the two practices feed into each other. Over time, I’ve come to see different mediums as having distinct energies that complement one another.
Recently, I had a vivid experience where one medium transformed another. For an exhibition in Canada, I created a dark chiffon fabric cabin and performed inside it. The physicality and mood of being immersed in that installation directly influenced the sound and performance. Now, the recording is displayed alongside the piece, creating a dialogue between the two.
For me, it’s always about exploring how different works can affect one another and holding space for the energy they create together. Even if it feels abstract at first, the interplay between mediums becomes clear when experienced as a whole.
How would you describe the central themes or philosophies that guide your practice, and how do you see these evolving over time?
I approach art from a pure, almost childlike spirit. Whenever I create, I feel genuinely happy and excited, even if the sound itself is described as dark. It usually comes from a place of deep introspection and playfulness.
Living as an artist means I’m constantly encountering new themes and reflecting on them. My spirituality plays a significant role in this. I am Buddhist but grew up in a Christian family, so there are layers of influence that have followed me throughout my life. These references naturally find their way into my work. Over time, it feels less like I’m consciously choosing these themes and more like they’re embedded in my way of living and creating.
Your music often blends experimental soundscapes with emotive, personal narratives. How do you approach the process of composing music, and what role does storytelling play in shaping the sonic atmosphere of your work?
It’s a mix of everything. While revisiting my portfolio recently, I noticed recurring existential and philosophical themes. This wasn’t deliberate,it reflects my curiosity and the way art helps me explore questions without clear answers.
For me, art embodies feelings or understandings that don’t need finality. This is why my work often delves into timelessness or spirituality. I’m not drawn to linear narratives, like a love song or heartbreak story. Instead, I focus on the energy of emotions, like the essence of love, rather than its storyline. Experimental music allows for this fluidity,it doesn’t have to be defined or linear. It exists as a spectrum of ideas and emotions that connect in unexpected ways.
Rêverie, a state of being lost in one’s thoughts or daydreams. Rêverie weaves together the sonic, physical, and digital realms through a series of interconnected sculpture, sound, and virtual pieces. How do these diverse elements come together, and what’s the creative story behind them?
Rêverie was a deeply personal project and my first solo exhibition, which made it even more exciting. The idea developed gradually during a residency at World Creation Studio in Montreal, a space that has been a long-time supporter of my work.
For this project, I wanted to try something new, so I decided to work with ceramics for the first time and explore how they could integrate with extended reality. I created ceramic sculptures, some of which I 3D-scanned to exist both physically and virtually.
The exhibition space was designed to feel immersive and dreamlike. Visitors entered a fog-filled room where they encountered sand typography created by a friend, sculptures placed throughout the space, and a soundscape I composed. There was also an interactive sound sculpture, a chime made from 3D-printed objects. Using a motion sensor, visitors could play the chime, creating their own sounds and engaging with the installation.
The project’s title, Rêverie, reflects its dreamlike quality and the exploration of realms between physical and digital, tangible and intangible. It was a way for me to blend technology and materiality, creating spaces that felt both personal and expansive.
Your music, such as in tracks like My Heart, incorporates a distinct fusion of electronic, experimental, and organic elements. How do you balance these diverse sonic textures, and what does the blending of genres represent within your broader artistic vision?
For My Heart, the process began when Cecilia, the singer, sent me vocals and piano tracks. I stripped everything back and built the song around those elements. Even though I didn’t initially know the lyrics, I felt connected to their energy.
When blending genres, I approach it similarly to how I DJ. Since I started making music through DJing rather than formal training, my process is rooted in curiosity and experimentation. My sound naturally leans experimental, even when I try for something more club-oriented.
Over the past few years, my Tati au Miel project began to feel heavier and more intricate, which led me to start a new side project, Haitian Prince of Music. This project allowed me to explore different sounds,drum-driven, ambient, and inspired by artists like Boards of Canada. It helped me realize I can explore any genre as long as I give it the right context.
This freedom excites me. Whether under Tati au Miel or another alias, I can push boundaries and create across genres without feeling confined to one style.
Many of your projects seem to challenge conventional formats of performance or art. Can you discuss how you approach breaking traditional boundaries, and what inspires you to create in such multidisciplinary ways?
The first thing that comes to mind is when someone asks, “Oh, you’re an artist? What do you do?” and I say I do more than one thing. Their reaction is often, “You can’t do that.” I hate that response because it’s 2025, we live in a time with access to so many tools and opportunities. It feels like a calling to push boundaries and explore new ways of creating.
I think of that expression, “Our ancestors ran so we could walk.” We’re in a moment where we don’t need to limit ourselves to replicating what already exists. Personally, I feel driven to take untraditional routes and challenge myself with each project.
Over the past four years, since becoming a full-time artist, I’ve made it a point to include an element of curiosity or learning in everything I do. Whether it’s experimenting with a new medium or diving into an idea’s roots, I constantly strive to create work that moves beyond conventional frameworks.
With technology evolving so quickly, the possibilities feel endless. Tools that were once difficult to access are now at our fingertips, and I’m excited to embrace that momentum to reimagine how art and performance can exist.
Your work often explores the intersection of the personal and the collective. How do you navigate the balance between your personal identity and the themes you aim to communicate to the audience, particularly in collaborative works?
I think there’s something inherently communal about being human. While my identity is specific,I’m Haitian Canadian, trans, and able-bodied, sharing who I am creates connections with others, even if we don’t share the same background.
For example, practicing Zen Buddhism has deeply influenced my perspective. Over the past two years, I’ve attended silent retreats and visited temples, especially in New York and Vancouver. What I love about Zen is its openness and communal nature, you meet people from all walks of life who share the same values. That sense of shared understanding mirrors how I present my work. Those who resonate with it will connect, no matter who they are.
That said, one challenge I’ve faced as an artist is being tokenized as a Black artist. While I’m proud of my identity and think it’s important to share, I don’t want my work to be reduced to that lens. This has motivated me to push my practice further, creating complex, layered pieces that can be appreciated for their depth and artistry beyond labels tied to my identity.
Can you take us through your current residency at MONOM, the renowned spatial sound studio and listening space in Berlin? What specific projects or ideas are you exploring there, and how does the space’s unique focus on spatial audio influence your creative process?
I’ve been at MONOM for a few days now, and it’s already been such a rewarding experience. This residency is unique because the team reached out to collaborate with artists, creating a piece together through discussions and shared ideas. That approach felt very natural for me, as I tend to develop work intuitively after being in a space and sensing its energy.
In our initial conversations, we discussed themes like spirituality, which often appear in my work. As I began working, the piece started to take shape as a kind of prayer. It’s inspired by wind, silence, white noise and the idea of a slow-building listening session that invites people to sit with the energy of the space and immerse themselves in the sound.
For me, this project is about being present and responsive to the space and the people around me. Even when performing live, I adapt based on the soundcheck or the energy of the venue. Spaces like MONOM allow me to explore this dynamic fully, crafting something that feels rooted in the moment.
With regard to spatial influences, The Akhet Edizione performance at Fondazione Casa Morra is part of a larger showcase in Naples. What role do you feel the venue and its historical significance play in shaping the energy and message of your performance? How does this specific performance engage with the concept of time, space, and place, especially within the context of Akhet, which suggests a moment of transition or creation?
That performance was my favorite show to date. Interestingly, my previous favorite was my first performance in Milan. I feel deeply connected to Italy, it has a unique energy I always tap into. The Italian electronic scene is incredibly supportive of avant-garde and unconventional work, and the audiences are a perfect balance of curiosity and openness.
The venue, Fondazione Casa Morra, was extraordinary. It’s a beautiful museum, and I had the privilege of staying there before the performance. This gave me time to immerse myself in the space and its history. Naples itself brought its own energy to the performance. The city’s chaotic charm reminds me of Mexico City, where I lived for a few years, and I’m drawn to that kind of vibrancy.
The performance took place on a grand staircase, and I felt compelled to wear a costume and mask. I hadn’t performed with a mask in a while, but doing so helped me channel the energy of the space and created a sense of separation between myself and the performance. This allowed me to fully embody the moment.
The acoustics, the historical weight of the venue, and the energy of the crowd all came together in a way that felt transcendent. Listening back to the recording, I hardly recognized my voice,it was so specific to that time and place. It’s performances like these that remind me why I create. They inspire me to continue tailoring each performance to the unique energy of the moment.
Biraddali Dancing on the Horizon documents a process of ancestral, intergenerational learning. Can you elaborate on the significance and origins of this work?
This film was created by my friend and collaborator, Bhenji Ra, a performer and movement artist from Australia and the Philippines. Biraddali refers to a term used by the Tausug of the Philippines, a celestial being that resembles a woman with wings and supernatural beauty. In the film, Bhenjilearns a pre-Islamic dance of the Tausug people of the Sulu Archipelago and the eastern coast Bajau of Saba in the Philippines. The film portrays a ritual and the learning of this dance with her teacher and collaborator Sitti Airia Sangkula Askalani-Obeso.
The film weaves together movement, stunning landscapes, and traditional music. My sound work for the piece includes noise textures blended with music from the Bungalima Tausug Ensemble. It was an honor to contribute to this project, especially as Bhenjiand I have been collaborating on several performances over the past year.
When Bhenji approached me about scoring the film, she said she felt I could translate shadows and create a parallel realm through sound. That idea stayed with me throughout the process. The film is deeply rooted in cultural and spiritual resonance, and I aimed to honor that by incorporating both indigenous Filipino sounds and experimental elements.
This collaboration felt like a culmination of our previous work together. Bhenji’s expertise in movement and my focus on sound complemented each other, creating a rich interplay between frequencies and physical gestures.
Eternal and Sacred features a selection of pre-recorded mixes and live sets. The genres explored vary from electronic, experimental, industrial, classical, and jazz to ambient soundscapes. Can you elaborate on the existential vision behind the mix as well as the embodiment of this vision in the title?
Eternal and Sacred was a proclamation I made through a mix and live event. It brought together ten artists, who contributed mixes and performed for a radio showcase in New York. The event spanned an entire day, with performances and mixes streamed live.
One of the highlights was including M. Lamar, an artist whose work I deeply admire. M. Lamar blends gothic opera with themes of identity and transformation. Having him contribute a recorded performance for the event felt surreal, especially as I’ve been a fan of his music for so long.
The title reflects ideas close to my heart: timelessness, spirituality, and the creation of spaces that feel expansive yet grounded. The project allowed me to curate a collective experience where diverse genres and creative expressions could coexist.
The event was hosted at Montez Press Radio in Chinatown, New York, where people could listen throughout the day. Some performances were recorded live, adding to the ephemeral yet permanent nature of the project. The name Eternal and Sacred encapsulates the energy I wanted to evoke, a timeless, almost spiritual atmosphere. It remains one of my most fulfilling projects, and I hope to expand on it in the future.
From Seed to Skin explored ideas of transformation, skin, and identity. How do you use sound to symbolize processes of growth, decay, and renewal, and what role does sonic experimentation play in conveying these concepts? Could you elaborate on how your collaboration with Bhenji Ra shaped the overall concept, and how did each of you influence the other’s vision for this live performance?
That performance was the first collaboration between Bhenji and me, and it felt symbolic, like planting a seed. The performance we’re doing later this month is actually a continuation, almost like the third iteration of what began with From Seed to Skin.
The original performance took place in Mexico City during the Day of the Dead, which brought a powerful energy of renewal, death, and shifting perspectives. At the same time, there was a heightened awareness of ongoing genocide in the media, adding another layer of intensity to the work. Bhenji felt called to incorporate elements of Mexican mythology, particularly the god who is associated with transformation and is often depicted with two masks.
For this piece, I asked Bhenji to wear an older costume I had made called the Flesh Mesh. It’s a fabric printed with images of my own flesh, taken from a surgery, symbolizing the idea of a second skin. I had previously used it in other installations and performances, but in From Seed to Skin, it took on a new meaning of shedding and renewal.
The performance itself was deeply rooted in the present moment. I thrive on collaboration, and working with someone as intuitive and thoughtful as Bhenji was incredibly inspiring. Her vision brought in mythological and ritualistic elements, while I focused on sonic experimentation, creating sounds that felt raw and transformative.
Together, we were able to craft a piece that was reflective of growth, decay, and renewal, a work that resonated deeply with the themes we wanted to explore. It was a process of mutual inspiration, with each of us drawing on the other’s ideas and energy to create something profoundly layered and impactful.
In the performance and installation at Kurimanzutto Gallery, you both used your bodies as mediums of transformation. What role does physicality and embodiment play in your work, and how does it connect with themes of growth, decay, and renewal?
I love this question because physicality has become something I am increasingly curious about.
This curiosity about embodiment is why I have always been drawn to performance. While I perform live music, I try to bring an intentional presence to the space, using my body to interact with the environment. Working with someone like Bhenji, who is so experienced in movement, has taught me so much about exploring my body’s role within performance.
I see embodiment as a way to leave a trace of myself in the work. Whether it is through a live performance, a physical gesture that remains, or a recorded element, I am fascinated by the idea of archiving and marking presence. It feels like an act of personal archaeology, leaving behind something meaningful while fully inhabiting the moment.
Formations for Eternity with Yesenia Rojas at Trans Pecos was a highly immersive live performance. How did you and Yesenia navigate the process of creating an experience that could engage the senses of the audience while also leaving space for introspection?
Yesenia is a close friend of mine. This performance was her first time doing something live, and it was exciting to collaborate on a project that felt so aligned with our shared interests. Both of us come from Caribbean descent, so themes of spirituality and ritual naturally emerged in our discussions. We envisioned the performance as “spiritual noise,” blending experimental sound with intentional, ceremonial elements.
We designed the environment to feel immersive and intimate, setting up four candles around us with the equipment placed in the middle. We faced each other while performing, surrounded by pillars of light, which gave the performance a cinematic quality. The setup became part of the experience, shaping the audience’s connection to the sound and creating a sense of timelessness.
This performance was the first under the Formations for Eternity name, and we both felt it had the potential to grow into an ongoing project. We are already discussing ways to expand it and record future performances. There is something deeply ritualistic about the way we approach these live sets, and it feels like a practice we want to explore further.
The term ‘eternity’ often evokes a sense of permanence, yet your performance seems to embrace the ephemeral. How do you reconcile these concepts, and how does it inform the way you craft live performances that are both fleeting and impactful?
I think it connects to what I mentioned earlier about leaving a trace. Even though live performances are ephemeral, there is something permanent in the impression they leave behind.
Over the years, I have become more selective about how I perform. Not every venue gives me the opportunity to fully realize my vision, but when I can, I think deeply about how to craft the experience. For me, it is about presence, being fully in the moment and creating something that resonates deeply, even if it is fleeting.
The kind of noise I work with often feels trance-like and timeless, as if it exists outside the boundaries of conventional time. I try to embody this quality in all my work. Whether it is through sound, lighting, or interaction with the space, I aim to create an experience that lingers in memory, even after the performance ends.
Ultimately, the reconciliation of eternity and ephemerality comes down to presence. By fully inhabiting the moment, I can create something impactful that leaves a lasting impression while embracing the fleeting beauty of live performance.
The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel series evokes a narrative-driven experience. In the second volume, ‘The Tale of The Vagabond,’ you create a world of migration, displacement, and transition. How do these themes resonate personally for you, and how do they manifest in the performance?
The Tale of The Vagabond emerged during a residency where I created a sculpture of a bird’s nest and performed alongside it. Even before starting the residency, I felt inspired to develop a character-driven story that leaned into fiction. The Vagabond is a human-bird hybrid, a metaphorical reflection of my life as a traveler and nomad.
This character embodies themes of being an outsider, someone without a fixed home. Growing up, the word “vagabond” was often present, sometimes even used as an insult in my Haitian upbringing, which added personal resonance to the concept. The bird imagery felt natural, symbolizing freedom, migration, and the fluidity of identity.
The narrative unfolds not through traditional storytelling but through installations and performances, each offering hints about the Vagabond’s existence and experiences. It allows me to explore deeply personal themes in a more tangible, relatable way, blending my abstract tendencies with a fictional framework.
How do you view the intersection of technology and sound in the Vagabond’s Altar?
It functions as an altar for a fictional character, blending physical objects I created with 3D-scanned and AI-generated elements. Viewers can interact with the piece through AR, placing it in their environment and scaling it to explore its details at their own pace.
What excites me about AR is its ability to make art more accessible. Anyone with a mobile phone can experience the work intimately, creating their own personal connection. This was my first AR piece, and I am eager to explore how technology can allow art to exist anywhere while giving audiences the freedom to engage on their terms.
Your performance at Mutek Montreal was part of an experimental music festival. Can you describe how you approach live sets like this one, how do you balance the organic elements of performance with the technological aspects that are so integral to your work?
The performance at Mutek Montreal was the live audio-visual iteration of my exhibition Rêverie, as both happened simultaneously in the city. It took place in a 360-degree dome at the Society of Arts and Technology, with visuals projected across the space and surround sound immersing the audience.
Because I was working with VR during my residency, I integrated visuals from the VR project into the performance to complement the dome’s environment. The site-specific nature of the dome heavily influenced the experience. For example, I adapted my sound sculpture for live performance and incorporated technology like motion sensors to make the experience both interactive and immersive.
Performing at Mutek felt significant, especially since it was in my hometown and allowed me to explore new directions in combining XR technology with live performance. It was an exciting way to experiment with emerging mediums while staying true to my artistic voice.
The Chime with Motion Sensor is an innovative piece that functions both as a MIDI controller and a live instrument. Can you describe the concept behind this piece and how it explores the relationship between physical movement and digital sound creation? How does the motion sensor function as a tool for both performance and composition, and what does it reveal about the relationship between technology and the human body?
During a residency, I participated in a workshop on digital fabrication and sensors, which introduced me to motion sensors. That sparked the idea of incorporating them into a chime. The first version was part of an installation, featuring 3D-printed objects that moved but did not produce sound.
I later developed a smaller, portable version with acoustic elements like small bells alongside electronic components. The motion sensor triggers sounds, blending physicality and technology. This interplay creates a tactile, interactive experience where movement generates sound, making it feel intuitive and accessible.
The chime represents my ongoing curiosity about integrating movement and sound. It highlights the relationship between the body and technology, showing how physical gestures can directly shape the auditory experience.
With the growing prevalence of augmented and virtual reality, what potential do you see for these mediums in the future of live performance or art installation? How do they enable a new form of intimacy and immersion with your work?
I believe AR and VR are becoming increasingly integrated into art and performance, offering exciting possibilities for intimacy and immersion. For example, performing in a 360-degree dome with projections felt like a form of augmented reality, where the audience could step into a fully immersive world.
That said, I think it is crucial to make these technologies accessible and human-centric. I am less interested in creating work that requires heavy equipment like VR headsets and more focused on using technology to simplify and enhance experiences. Motion sensors, for example, allow for intuitive interactions without overwhelming barriers.
Ultimately, I see AR and VR as tools to expand how audiences connect with art, providing them with new ways to explore and engage while maintaining a sense of presence and immediacy. As I continue to experiment, I hope to find ways to merge these mediums seamlessly into my practice, making technology a complement to, rather than a replacement for, physical interaction.
Carousel is a fascinating blend of experimental music, visuals, and themes of emotional vulnerability. Can you walk us through the inspiration behind this piece?
Many of the sounds in Carousel were initially created during The Tale of The Vagabond. The root inspiration for this project was the concept of ever-changing forms and the idea of recreating and reinterpreting my own work. I am a big believer in revisiting previous ideas and evolving them into something new, and Carousel embodies this approach.
The title itself evokes imagery of a carousel at an amusement park, with its whimsical, cyclical motion. This EP captures that energy, blending playful, childlike wonder with experimental sonic textures. For example, the first track, La Berceuse, uses vocal samples from my friend Embaci, and its title refers to a French lullaby, a song to soothe or put someone to sleep. The tracks often feel like lullabies spiraling into echoes, creating a dreamlike atmosphere.
Another influence was the Haitian literary movement known as Spiralism, which explores themes of timelessness, transformation, and the expansion of life. This philosophy deeply shaped the EP, blending ideas of childlike innocence with an abstract sense of infinite possibility.
Solar Return feels like a deeply introspective and cosmic exploration of time and transformation. Could you elaborate on the concept behind this project and how it relates to your personal and creative evolution?
Solar Return was one of my first projects, and it holds a special place for me. It includes some of my favorite tracks, which I still perform live. At the time, I felt an urgency to create and release work, it was driven by a chaotic energy and a sense of survival. I had a lot of ideas and felt the need to get them out into the world quickly.
Looking back, I see how my creative process has evolved since then. These days, I feel more grounded and patient. I no longer feel the same rush to release work and prefer to take my time refining and expanding my ideas. This shift feels like a natural progression as I have become more established in my practice.
The themes in Solar Return, transformation, cycles, and renewal, still resonate with me, but I am exploring them with a deeper sense of intentionality. Moving forward, I plan to revisit some of these earlier works in a deluxe edition, combining them with new visuals and creating a more expansive body of work.
In The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, you delve into the supernatural, ritualistic practices, and transformation. Can you describe the genesis of this work, and how the idea of an “exorcism” informs the emotional and sonic landscape of the piece? How does embodiment and physical interaction with sound manifest in this project, and what does it symbolize in the context of personal transformation and release?
As my debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Daniel was deeply rooted in themes of trance, possession, and release. The idea of an exorcism felt like a fitting metaphor for letting go and confronting the darker aspects of life. Growing up with Haitian heritage, I was influenced by voodoo rituals, where possession and exorcisms are integral parts of spiritual practice.
At the same time, the project drew parallels with modern rave culture and the way people describe the catharsis of dance and techno music. While some people interpreted the project through that lens, my intention was always more spiritual, highlighting the beauty in confronting and embracing the complexities of life.
This work planted the seed for my ongoing Tati au Miel projects. It established a foundation of exploring abstract, spiritual, and transformative themes. Even now, I am inspired by ideas of fog, veils, and shifting realms, both as visual motifs and as symbolic representations of life’s layers and transitions.
Looking toward the future, what themes or concepts are you most excited to explore in your upcoming works? How do you envision your practice evolving over the next few years, especially as technology continues to advance in art-making?
In recent years, my live performances have become more reflective of my evolving sound. I’ve started incorporating new instruments, like bells and the flute, into my work. Learning the flute has been an exciting challenge, it’s still new for me, but performing with it has been an empowering experience.
Moving forward, I plan to release a larger body of work. My goal is to create a full-length album with at least 12 to 15 tracks, combining elements from my past projects with new approaches I’ve been exploring. Taking my time to develop this album will allow me to craft something cohesive, intentional, and deeply personal.
As technology continues to advance, I’m excited to experiment with interactive and immersive elements in my work. Whether through AR, VR, or physical installations, I want to create experiences that are accessible, innovative, and grounded. My goal is to push boundaries while maintaining a sense of intimacy and connection.
This next phase feels like an opportunity to integrate everything I’ve learned so far while exploring new directions. It’s a balance of honouring my past work and embracing the unknown, all while staying true to the essence of my practice.
Listen to NR Sound 068 Tati au Miel
Watch Rêverie by Tati au Miel (Live 360) at MUTEK Montréal
Photography · Medar
All images courtesy of Tati au Miel.
Special thanks to plural artist management.
No_Stone
Beyond Sound: The Humanity in No_Stone’s Imperfect Balance
No_Stone emerges as a raw and authentic dialogue between human complexities, sound, space, and identity. Rooted in Cairo’s underground music scene and shaped by the contrasting energies of Berlin and Barcelona, Assyouti and Jehia bring together their distinct yet complementary artistic visions, embracing imperfections, breaking boundaries, and redefining the underground.
Through their music, they navigate the tensions between chaos and harmony, energy and introspection, dissonance and connection. Together, they explore what it means to leave “no stone unturned,” with a reminder to remain human and real.
How did Cairo’s underground music scene act simultaneously as refuge and catalyst for both of your early artistic expressions? As your careers took you beyond Egypt, how did the clash between the raw energy of your upbringing and the more defined infrastructures of Berlin and Barcelona shape your evolving sound?
Assyouti: Cairo’s underground scene that had given birth to so many early important artists dissolved before I could even participate. By the time I started playing, there were just fragments left—parties here and there, but no cohesive movement. My early gigs were about trying to fit in, to play what I thought people wanted to hear. But I quickly realized my sound was “weird”, even in its most accessible form. That realization freed me. I stopped holding back. My last gig in Cairo before moving was pivotal—I played only what I loved. It was raw and honest, and for the first time, it resonated. That moment became my starting point. Moving to Berlin was transformative. There, artists are more respected, treated like professionals, and even given grants. In Cairo, we were seen as troublemakers. Berlin made me take myself seriously—not just as a DJ, but as a creative force. It helped me channel my creative output into something precise and intentional.
Jehia: My journey was different. I started my career after moving to Barcelona, long after leaving Cairo. Back home, the scene felt out of reach—age restrictions, limited access, and a general sense of cultural dissonance kept me away. But in Barcelona, the vibrant underground scene pulled me in. In Cairo, it was just for fun—b2b sets with Assyouti at house parties. Those moments were special—zero expectations, pure exploration. Barcelona’s innovative scene taught me to embrace my own artistic identity. My first solo gig, Primavera Sound, was a turning point. It made me realize I could take up space in this world and really express myself. That’s when I stopped holding back and fully leaned into the journey.
The creation of No_Stone brought two distinct yet complementary artistic visions together. Can you share the story of how these two paths crossed, and how shared visions for experimental, cross-genre music led to the formation of No_Stone?
A: I came to Berlin to study music. As part of my final assessment at school, I had to create an album and present it live at a venue. Initially, No_Stone was just an event to fulfill a requirement. I reached out to a club owner I knew and organized what I thought would be a one-off event. However, deep down I knew that it was only the start of something, it was undeniable that this had to evolve. Around the same time, Jehia was hosting events in Barcelona. We’ve always had similar tastes and I knew we were planning on booking many of the same artists. It felt natural to join forces. I called him and said, “Let’s do this together. Let’s expand it from two cities— Barcelona and Berlin—and create something bigger.
No_Stone has been described as a space that seeks the (im)perfect balance between introspective sounds and razor-sharp energy. What does this “imperfect” balance mean to each of you, and how does it manifest in your collaborative process during live performances?
A: It’s the acknowledgment that perfection is unattainable—and that’s where the magic lies. It’s not about creating a perfect experience but about embracing the imperfections that make it human. Real.
J: Imperfection creates relatability, spontaneity, and authenticity. In live performances, especially B2Bs, this concept comes alive. We challenge each other, not to dominate but to elevate, and that interplay shapes the narrative.
How does the imperfection work in b2b performances? Your collaboration thrives on spontaneity and unpredictability, particularly during live b2b sets. How do you prepare for the unexpected in these moments, and how do your individual approaches to music shape the dynamic tension between?
J: Honestly, I usually struggle with b2bs because I prefer to prepare my sets thoroughly from start to finish. But with Assyouti, it’s a completely different process compared to others. The last time we played together, we didn’t even discuss specifics—no genres, no strict plan. It just happened naturally. We only talked about the general flow of energy. But when we started the set, it felt seamless. There’s also this sweet challenge between us. It’s like a tug-of-war but in the best, most creative way possible.
A: Exactly. I think part of the magic is that we don’t prepare too much because we trust each other’s taste. That spontaneity keeps it exciting—like, “What’s he going to play now?” Even if we know each other’s music, it’s about when and how it’s played. My narrative might lead one way, and his might take a completely different turn. But by the end of the set—which is often the best part—we’ve settled into a flow that combines both our energies and we know where we’re going. The last time we played together, it was only an hour and a half—nothing compared to the 10+ hour sets we’ve done before. In those longer sets, things truly evolve. After the first couple of hours, we hit our stride and align perfectly. That’s when it gets really exciting.
J: Also, by the end of a set, you have less to lose. The crowd is already engaged, and you can afford to experiment more. You can mix the weirdest genres and take risks. For example, at our last set in Cairo, I played an Aphex Twin track—super emotional and serious. Then Assyouti dropped this ridiculous, playful pop remix over it. It was the most unexpected combination, but it worked. People went wild. It’s those moments of sudden synergy that make our b2bs so special.
Your music navigates the tension between dissonance and harmony, balancing chaos and order in a way that feels both structured and free-flowing. Is this a reflection of your internal states? Or is it something that emerges naturally as part of your creative process?
A: I think that too much of one thing—whether it’s energy or introspection—gets boring. Contrast keeps it stimulating and enhances the overall experience. Without balance, even the most energetic track can fall flat. My creative process grows by reading the crowd’s emotion. We naturally tap into that, sensing where the energy is and what the moment requires. Which is essential to learn how to contrast, either for preparing a narrative or just reacting spontaneously in the moment. In both cases you rely on intuition, which gradually develops by analyzing the room after “testing the water” and taking risks. But beyond that, it’s about creating a space where people feel free. Sometimes we mix tracks that feel right in the moment, even if they don’t create a perfect blend, but because we feel they’ll have a certain impact. That experimentation might not always be flawless, but it feels genuine and alive, making sense of the moment as it unfolds.
J: It’s natural. Every set is different because it’s shaped by the space, the time, and the energy of the moment. Of course my personal state influences the music I choose, but it’s more about creating a specific energy for a specific place, and that’s part of the creative process. And I think the experimentation itself becomes a kind of reflection. Even if there’s no set intention behind it, the act of blending, of trying something new, carries its own meaning. It’s about exploration and authenticity, not about delivering a polished, predictable performance. For me, that’s what makes a set interesting.
Genre-blending is central to your music, yet each genre retains its authenticity within the whole. How do you think such unconventional sound pairings enhance the narrative of the set?
A: When I started my career, I made a conscious decision not to box myself into one genre. If I had started that way, people would’ve expected me to stick to it forever. Now people know that I play across genres, and I love that freedom. It allows me to be invited to a variety of events, and I can tailor my sets to each space without losing my integrity.
My family was always into music. Growing up, I didn’t think about labels like “genre.” To me, music was music. That perspective naturally carried over into my work. I don’t see tracks as belonging to genres; I see them as individual pieces with their own identities. That makes it easier to mix seemingly unrelated styles without fitting into a specific box in order to build a narrative that flows and evolves, and I think that’s what really ends up resonating with audiences.
J: When I prepare a set, I focus on the emotional and energetic identities of each track rather than their genres. That approach opens up endless possibilities for unexpected combinations. Sometimes I’ll stumble upon a blend that I wouldn’t have imagined working, but when I play it, it makes perfect sense. Those moments of discovery are what excite me the most. Can be quite a challenge too. My process often involves preparing music months in advance when possible. I build playlists for each gig, pulling tracks from Bandcamp, SoundCloud, YouTube—wherever. I think about the space, the people who will be there, even the staff working at the venue, and try to deliver a set specifically for that context.
A: If I have time to prepare, I can build something cohesive that still surprises me during the performance. Sometimes, though, you don’t have time to prepare—like when bookings come last minute or back-to-back. That’s when I rely on intuition and quick decisions. It can be messy, but those spontaneous moments often lead to unexpected blends or transitions that surprise even me. It reminds me why I love this—because it’s not just about playing music I’ve prepared but also responding to the energy of the room and truly connecting with people.
How do you balance the desire to push the boundaries of sound while ensuring that there’s still an emotional connection with the audience? Do you ever feel there’s a limit to how far you can experiment in a live setting?
J: It depends on the space or event. At some festivals, I do hold back. Festivals attract a fluid audience. People come and go, often without knowing the artist. In those cases, I restrain the experimentation to an extent. But in spaces I feel at home, like certain clubs in Barcelona or Berlin, I truly let go and play the weirdest, hardest tracks. Those are the moments where I push myself to do things I didn’t even expect of myself.
A: Again, it’s all about balance. I don’t want to sell out by playing only what’s “safe”, neither do I want to always play chin-stroking intellectual stuff, I want to enjoy myself and connect with the crowd. If I play something too abstract and it doesn’t land, it ruins the vibe for me as much as for them. It’s about finding that middle ground—staying true to my sound while keeping the energy engaging and stimulating. Some sets are dark and rough; others are light and fun. It depends on the context and how you adapt to it without compromising.
This ties into the larger conversation about the mainstream versus the underground. Do you think the industry will evolve to make more space for experimentation?
A: The music scene is cyclical. It swings between creative experimentation and peak commercialism. Right now, I feel we’re closer to commercialism. DJs, producers, bookers, labels I once admired are now leaning into accessibility, playing it safe for hype and sales, resulting in monotonous, trend-driven output. However, I’m hopeful for a shift back to adventurous, personal sounds and individualism, because many in the scene are starting to feel disillusioned. It takes a collective effort to break the loop, but I think we’re heading in the right direction.
J: I agree. Music should be about sharing your individual sound, not copying what’s trending. The artists I respect most are the ones who stay true to their niche, even if it doesn’t make them rich or famous. It’s about integrity and introducing people to something new and meaningful. That’s what we try to do with our sets and with No_Stone.
In No_Stone, the aim is to leave “no stone unturned” in your exploration of sound. Upon research, I came across that the origin of the phrase dates back to an ancient Greek legend where an oracle advised a general to search under every stone to find hidden treasures, signifying the importance of exhaustive investigation or effort. Considering the creative process to be a mirror of this philosophy, can you take us behind the scenes and to the influence you aim to create for the listeners?
A: The idea of “imperfect balance” reflects the fact that we’re not trying to go to extremes. It’s not about “raving until we drop” or about creating events that are purely for deep listening. It’s about finding a middle ground. Personally, when I go to events, I get bored if it’s all in one direction—either constant high energy or purely introspective. The harmony lies in moving between these states. At our events, there will always be people who want more energy and others who prefer introspection. It’s impossible to please everyone, but we can keep things dynamic. The balance will never be perfect, and that’s okay—it keeps things interesting. It’s like constantly shifting left and right to keep the center. That’s what we aim for.
J: Assyouti actually came up with the term “imperfect balance” before I joined, but it resonates with how I approach music too. No event or dj-set will ever be flawless, and that’s the point. Acknowledging imperfection keeps things organic.
How did this passion serve as a medium for delivering profound messages and fostering cultural connections?
J: One example that comes to mind is a mix I recently prepared for national radio in Barcelona. Unlike an online stream for an audience already familiar with our scene, this was broadcast to everyday listeners—people driving home from work, for instance. For me, that was a chance to play African, Arabic and Middle Eastern music. It was a way to showcase these cultures to people that wouldn’t really get exposed to them in their daily lives.
In clubs or spaces, I often play to people who already share similar views or appreciate the music I play—people who might cheer when I drop an Arabic or Palestinian track. But for the radio, I felt it was more intentional. It wasn’t just about playing a set; it was about using music as a bridge to connect cultures.
A: An example for me was during a fundraiser for Palestine. I didn’t approach it as just another club set. I was trying to tap into the collective emotions of the crowd, and that wasn’t by simply playing some Middle Eastern tracks, but rather creating an emotional narrative tied to the reason why everyone was there—to support Palestine. Because people were already emotional, and I wanted to offer a way to process and release that through music. That’s part of what I think we, as DJs, are here to do—not only play fun or bright tracks to always entertain, but also match the tone and energy of the moment when the situation calls for something deeper.
The DIY aspect is quite authentic and aligned with the philosophy. How does it add to the project’s message?
J: The DIY aspect mirrors the essence of No_Stone. It’s raw, real, and human. We’re not focusing on making it look perfect or polished. The priority is the music and the experience. That said, we recognize that visual identity matters, and we might refine it in the future. But for now, we believe it to be a mirror to its core.
A: Exactly. Just like in our careers, we’ve built an audience slowly but genuinely. The people who come to No_Stone events are there for the music and the experience—not because of flashy posters or a trendy Instagram feed. It’s about creating a real connection with our audience, and that authenticity is what makes the project so special.