Leon Emanuel Blanck: Perfectionism is not something that gets me anywhere. It also has to do with the technique I have developed. I see the whole process as a kind of Sisyphean task. You work on one side, or on both sides in parallel, and then the piece is finished, so to speak. You put it on again and think, “Okay, this side is a little tighter than the other,” or something doesn’t quite work. Then you work on the other side again, and suddenly that side is different. You could continue forever. At some point, you have to stop, otherwise it will never be finished. In my idea of things, perfection simply isn’t attainable.

LEB: Earlier, actually. I see the entire design and shaping process as a conversation between the body I am shaping, the person, the material and my own input. It’s like a conversation, so to speak. I don’t actually design that much; things happen almost automatically through the movement and the person. Ultimately, the seam lines and the shapes are determined by the natural characteristics of the body. In that sense, it is already something very natural and alive. Then there is another step when someone buys it and wears it, and their character and the character of the garment connect with each other.

LEB: Everything I touch turns to gold. It’s quite scary. I’m actually always inspired. I don’t really have moments where I think, “I have no idea what to do.” I also don’t see it as, “Now I’m designing something,” or “Now I’m thinking about this.” The day is just the day, you do what you do, and maybe an idea comes to you. Sometimes you just have to start working on something, and then it comes naturally.

LEB: Emotions more than things I see. But I don’t think you can design something while living in a completely white room, isolated from everything. What you surround yourself with, in the broadest sense, will always come back out through you. But it’s not something I actively do. I don’t look at something and think, “I’m going to make this now.” It’s more about how you carry yourself. But emotions definitely play a role.

There is a collection for Leon Emanuel Blanck called Human. It was the winter collection that has now come into stores. During the design phase, it was originally very much connected to a feeling I had. I was quite angry for a while about various things, which isn’t necessarily unusual for me—that is part of my character. I eventually realized that this was coming through in the collection, and it developed from there.

LEB: To feel themselves, and also to feel the difference between left and right—not necessarily the left and right sides, but generally. The nice thing about clothes, or at least what I like about my clothes, is that you always feel something when you wear them. It’s not that classic feeling of, “Wow, this is so light,” or “I don’t feel anything at all.” It’s more that something is happening.

LEB: Another form of design, if I’m being precise. It actually started with taking classics and putting my DNA onto them—whether it’s a trench coat, a five-pocket jean or a trucker jacket. These are all classic pieces that still work when I put my stamp on them. It works without a logo. I put the cut into the foreground, which is kind of a logo in itself, but not actually one.

That’s what I find interesting. If you’re not paying close attention, you simply have a trench coat. But if you have an eye for things, you might think, “Interesting. Why is it made this way? Why is the seam positioned like that? Why are the left and right sides different?” It’s not very loud.

LEB: Clothing is clothing, and artworks are artworks. That’s what’s beautiful about sculptures, for example. They don’t have to fit anyone. Something can be too tight for me, too wide, or simply not suit me. It doesn’t have to.

LEB:  It was really funny because I didn’t actually realize how special or great it was until much later, looking back. It wasn’t gone, obviously, but I only really appreciated it afterwards. I thought, “Fuck, that’s amazing.” 

In general, I’m not very easily impressed or in awe of other people. Of course, it’s great when people create something amazing, but there are so many people creating incredible things. I’ve never really had that kind of fandom—even as a child, it was never really my thing.

Dahi:

The title is an ode to my younger self. The album represents my youth and how I view the world, bringing light to what was truthful to my childhood. At the end of the day, I consider myself a kid at heart, and creatively I’m always pulling from that source of inspiration or viewpoint, because I feel like as a child you’re not tainted by the world. You just feel things and make it what it is. So, yeah, it was paying homage to my younger self.

D:

At the end of the day, it’s about who you really are. Are you the same person you were as a child? What do you actually represent, and what do you stand for as a human being? What are you willing to sacrifice in life? What are the things that weigh you down that are sometimes tragic and heavy, and how are you able to fight through that to get through life? Overall, I’d say self-identity, self-reflection, and perseverance. 

D:

To be honest, I felt it was the same in terms of putting the records together. I know how to make an album, so using that experience was pretty fluid throughout the process. I think the only difference was trying to identify my voice in the music and making it more prominent—that was just an adjustment. Overall, it felt natural and on par with how I make records in general, whether writing melodies, lyrics, or performing. It felt like a natural part of my identity as an artist.

D:

I was really excited for people to hear it. But also, I was excited because it was something that felt very personal and connected to the narrative I’ve been trying to tell in my music—the things I’m proud of and what I want to represent. Now that the album is out, it feels like a sense of relief. I feel a bit removed from it, as I finished the album two years ago, so bringing those memories back is interesting now that it feels new to other people. It’s about reconnecting with these moments in a new space, which has been cool. It helps me understand what art is—that it can be timeless. It doesn’t necessarily have to feel new; if you made something 5 or 10 years ago and it still resonates, that’s the most important thing. Overall, I’m just happy it’s out. It’s definitely timestamped in my mind as living in the moment of making it, but also having other people listen to it.

D:

A lot of things changed—going through the pandemic, having kids, dealing with family drama, and personal highs and lows. Overall, life becomes more apparent in how bleak it is. So much of what we do every day is just getting through today, pushing through, and trying to live for the now. But sometimes I think you’re trying, at least for me, to bring understanding to the ‘why.’

And over time, the ‘why’ becomes a little clearer in what I’m supposed to do or what feels natural. Having clarity in the message is what time gave me; it made it more present in how this relates to other people and how they feel connected to who they are. Overall, I’m just growing up. That’s the main thing I’ve taken away in these last few years.

D:

It wasn’t really a choice; I didn’t intentionally set out to have this many features on the album. I think it just came naturally, given the way I work with so many artists, and these are my friends. I really love collaboration as a tool to make something better than what I expected or what I could have done by myself. Overall, it was natural to bring these artists and people into my world. The main thing I wanted to establish was that these songs aren’t necessarily for their own albums. I wanted to build a world they could come to play in—a treat for their own craft and artistry. When you hear the album, it becomes apparent that even though they do other things, these songs fit a certain unification and a sound that feels unique to the project.

D:

A lot of it was just people in my head that I thought I could work well with, or people I’ve been fans of, or whose voices I admire. Overall, I think these are people who live in the alternative world in their own way or perspective. Knowing that about each of these artists made it easier to pitch them the ideas that I had for songs. It really boiled down to what each of these songs means to me personally and how we could make something special, given their perspective and what they’ve gone through. Each song feels like a different voice compared to what they’ve done on their own projects, but I feel like they could take these songs and perform them in their own shows or play them for their friends and feel proud of what they contributed to the album.

D:

The process was really fluid. There wasn’t a master plan or a ‘big board’ of things we wanted to do. A lot of it was just starting from jam sessions where I’d bring starter ideas that felt cool, and then everyone would get on the mic to pitch an idea or play a line, and we’d all react to it. It felt very much like a band; everyone involved just stacked on someone else’s idea and kept building from there. It was like a Lego set—it felt like a blank canvas. If something felt right, you just went with it. That’s what made the album fun. Once you have that idea, you can figure out how to structure it in a way that people understand, invoking the feelings we were aiming for in a short amount of time.

D:

To be honest, the sound of that era is still prominent in what I became a fan of. Everything felt more regional back then—whether you were from the West Coast, the South, New York, Detroit, or Miami—and that made it special because everyone in those spaces was making music true to their culture. Artists were collaborating and jumping into sessions, and that idea of collaboration was much more acceptable. Now, when I go into sessions, I know how special those rooms are. If you have the right room and bring people together, you can create something dope. That was happening a lot during that time; it felt fluid, and there wasn’t a lot of ego involved because everyone was just trying to make great stuff and put it on the internet to see what happened. I’m still a fan of those feelings when making music.

D:

For me personally, I strive for a balance in the projects I choose to be part of. At the end of the day, you have to be proactive in managing your finances and how you want to move creatively. I never want money to dictate the projects I take on, or feel the desperation of needing a hit record just to pay bills or escape financial debt. Overall, I create a balance in my life that allows me to work on what feels right. It has helped me have a longer career than most, simply because of my approach—I never feel like I’m chasing anything that feels unnatural. I’m always trying to find things that feel the best, whether indie or otherwise, and I usually find myself working on something that feels cool or unique for the times.

D: I don’t like to answer that question because I’m going to work with who I need to work with. I’m a fan of a lot of people, and there’s a lot of incredible art out there, but I live by spontaneity—knowing that what you think you want may not be what you actually want, and what you didn’t expect often comes to pass. So, I just let God be the choice, and Lord willing, it feels like the right move.

Jakub: From the Prague perspective, Berlin was always this capital of dark autumn nostalgia and post-rave depression. There is definitely a romanticisation. It was the nightlife we wanted to have in Prague, but maybe we were just afraid to go that deep into the darkness full-time.

J: This whole year was so overwhelming that it’s honestly difficult for me to leave room for any emotions. I was travelling a lot, I was absorbed by socialisation, by the stress connected with the Venice project. All the feelings and emotions I could have towards Berlin are now completely wasted in that cloud of the exhausted myth of ’26.

J: Visual art is not rock music, you don’t get unfiltered feedback from an audience. Nobody’s clapping their hands every day for you. There’s an opening, and that’s it. Some best friends are going to give you their real opinion, and some wider audience is going to give you something you want to hear. But, there is one thing: Since the opening I’ve been constantly receiving messages from people I never met, over social media, giving me feedback on the work in Venice. Mostly, they’re really nice messages about how they relate to the topic and how they relate to the work itself. This is, of course, really encouraging and super supportive. What else has changed? I have a gallery now (Kodl Contemporary), and I can really feel the support of a whole team of people behind me. It’s a huge relief.

J: Since the beginning we knew it was going to be difficult due to the political situation in the Czech Republic and in Slovakia. The Slovak National Gallery and the Slovak institutions were already deconstructed by the far right. We expected the same thing to happen in the Czech Republic — which is happening right now. We understood that if we entered the competition, we would have to face a lot of forces against us. Which also happened.

J: During this whole year we experienced different tensions and threats — just so that we wouldn’t be as critical at the opening, and wouldn’t support any protest during the Biennale. And we also faced censorship pressure during the preparation of the catalogue.

J: We helped Pussy Riot with their protest, because we didn’t agree with the presence of the Russian pavilion. We were seeking a way to do something, and the most meaningful thing was to help with infrastructure, to help Pussy Riot bring technical equipment and their people to the Giardini. We felt like spies from a seventies espionage movie. Plus we decided to close the pavilion in support of Palestine, against the Israeli pavilion. Which was also considered an unpopular decision, given that the Czech perspective on the discussion is super pro-Israeli, and it’s really difficult to be critical at all on this topic.

J: We did it as a team. It was a shared presentation of Czechs and Slovaks. It was the hundred year anniversary of the pavilion. And that was actually the first time after 1989 that Czechs and Slovaks collaborated on a show with a unified concept that was brought together by Alex Selmeci and Tomáš Kocka Jusko, and the curator Peter Sit and Me. We wanted to talk about what happens to imagination when it falls into the hands of soft power. In fact, the whole project is about national representation in times of political darkness.

The main character of the pavilion is the Mole, referring both to the famous Czech animated figure and to Franz Kafka. It is also about silence: at one point, the instruments through which the Mole communicates fall silent. The question, then, is whether silence can become a gesture of protest, or whether it ultimately represents a failure.

J: I think it perfectly illustrates what we are experiencing in everyday life, in the current global political situation, from the perspective of Central Europe. All of these elements which trigger you in everyday political reality were so physically present in one place, in the Giardini, in one moment. It felt like a movie scene. All of that allegorical power of the Biennale, representing global issues while simultaneously bringing in local perspectives, everything was present at once. I don’t even know if it could be more illustrative than this. Of course there was a lot of drama. The drama took a lot of attention away from the art itself, and from the artists. But for me it was completely understandable why and how it’s happening. I didn’t select this situation. I would rather live in a world that is easygoing and everyone is chill, sure. But this is not where we are. We’re in the middle of madness. So I don’t think it could have happened in a different way. Of course it’s not comfortable, but it’s more and more real.

J: It’s purely a political allegory and satire, which, I don’t know how that even happened, but it’s based on the world of vegetables. It started as a one-day improvisation: I had twenty euros as my budget and decided to produce the show in one day, bought the celery root, and invited the Czech philosopher Kamil Nábělek, who gave a memorable lecture on the ontology of the celery root. That’s how we introduced the celeriac into the new upcoming story.

J: We were exploring what a celeriac can be, and what the problems of the celeriac are. The biggest problem is a class issue between celeriacs and avocados. Avocados are established, highlife, expensive, fancy, hipster, and with their own Avocado toast. And celeriacs are below, always invisible, doing the hard work in the broths and creams taking care of the flavor, even though nobody sees them as flavorful. So there was a class tension. This notion completely disappeared from a public Czech discussion after 1989. The rise of the populist far-right agenda is also founded on this invisible presumption we have in society, because we cannot discuss class without being targeted as a communist.

J: Since the beginning I felt that the project would be like therapy through alter egos. Issues from my personal life, plus something I need to experience in this shared political universe. In “Shame to Pride” I took the role of the villain Avocado, because I didn’t want to compromise any of my friends. Haha. Yes, I do work with friends – non-actors.  They are mostly people I know from real life, with special rhetorical skills, or they are just incredibly funny. With this particular film, though, the trickiest part was that I was performing in it while directing it at the same time. When you have a crew and other performers on set, it’s incredibly challenging to bring everything together. I’ll probably come back to it at some point, once I start missing the adrenaline again.

J: He started as a meta commentator, became a character, and then he became a character of a meta commentator. But he also became my partner in crime for a while. We were travelling from one biennale to another. In pre-pandemic times, in 2018, I had around twelve shows a year, travelling to Athens, to New York and other places together with Kamil and a backpack full of celeriacs. Kamil was performing at the openings and during the shows. In many shows he was even present during opening hours. But he had no costume, he had no name on his chest, so nobody could recognise him as the official performer. There were no announced hours. But, he was also something like my philosophical coach, helping me all the time to take distance from the story and myself.

J: I remember one thing from my childhood. I went to school in a small town, so everything was more or less conservative. Then I found a CD of a Czech singer who is quite specific, quite absurd, quite respected and disrespected as well. His name is Daniel Nekonečný — Daniel Neverending. He’s somewhat of an eccentric figure from nineties pop culture in the Czech Republic. His music was full of South American appropriations. It was fantastic and horrible at the same time. But when you played his music, it was a reimagination of what it could be to live in Rio de Janeiro — for Central Europeans. He had super colourful costumes, feathers, using glitter, colourful nails and necklaces. He was always shining, and that was his personal agenda: to shine. In the Central European context I always felt that the strategy of deciding to shine also covers some kind of deeper frustration or depression. You’re living in a world which is black and white, greyish. Nothing shines. So to pretend that you want to shine is a kind of self-declaration which is super strong. But you also want to overtake your own background, your own conditions and live in some kind of imaginary world. When you live in darkness your dreams will likely not be black and white. So for me, colours and vivid shininess represent the strategy of how you want to beat the depression. And it’s really difficult for me to read the works of other artists who use a lot of colour. When I see a colorful painting, I definitely read it as: okay, this person is really depressed.

J: When I brought his CD to school, they immediately called my parents to ask if I’m gay. It was absurd. Since then I was like: okay, maybe I’m not gay, but I love colours, I love nails, I love glitter. Maybe a hetero person doesn’t have to follow this whole hetero construction. Maybe you can wear a pink shirt even in a small town. For me it was a symbol of courage and self-realization.

J: I don’t have an answer. But what I see is that we are constantly adapting to all of these new tools and structures. We’ve been fighting the overwhelm of information for the last ten, fifteen years. Now Instagram, all the social medias, are facing trials where people frame them as dangerous for our health as cigarettes. Maybe, if this concept wins, all of these addictive algorithms will be regulated a bit more like smoking in a public space. The same for AI. I hope we will find a way to regulate all of these things. And if we don’t find a way to regulate them on a global scale, maybe there’s still the option to turn off your phone for a week, completely by your own will.

Julez Smith: There was always a lot of creativity around me growing up. My family was full of strong ideas,
unique perspectives, and big visions, and I feel really blessed that I was able to absorb so much of that from an early age. At the time, I didn’t fully understand how much it was shaping me. It wasn’t until I got out of high school and started finding my own path that I realized I had all these same ideas and creative instincts within me. I just had to learn how to trust them, develop them, and apply them to my own life.

JS: Not always. I grew up following in my dad’s footsteps as an athlete and was on a basketball court almost every day from sixth grade through my senior year. There was definitely pressure to be the best, especially with my dad being an elite athlete. When I found fashion, I had nothing but support from my family, but I knew I still had to work hard and earn my place. The discipline I learned through sports has definitely carried over into my career.

JS: The thing with me and music is that I actually always loved being behind the scenes—production, management, and bringing ideas to life. Growing up, I was also exposed to fashion from all over the world. As I developed my own sense of style, it felt natural to take that interest and explore fashion on a larger scale.

JS: Yes. I’ve really taken the time to sit back and learn the details and meticulous work that goes into running a brand. I’ve learned that everything in fashion takes time, effort, and patience. Clothes are important, but a brand is ultimately a business, and you have to treat it like one. I’m
always in a constant state of learning, absorbing, and evolving.

JS: It was amazing! I loved the venue they chose for the show—it was beautiful. I also loved the looks, my favorite part of my fit was my UGG’s. I was genuinely excited and honored to walk for GmbH.

JS: No, it wasn’t my first time there. I’ve always loved the architecture in Berlin and how different it feels from back home. There’s something really inspiring about being in a place that feels so
different.

JS: It’s truly an honor. Having two incredible experiences like this means a lot to me, especially because Tyson has always been one of the OGs I’ve looked up to. One of my biggest inspirations is knowing that there are young men like me who can see what I’m doing and realize there are no limits to what they can become. I want to show that you don’t have to follow
one path or let barriers define you—you can go out, chase your goals, and create your own way.

JS: Yes! I remember the black UGG high tops from when I was a kid. I have such vivid memories of running outside to help my mom with groceries or move things around, and whenever I was in a hurry, I’d just slip those UGGs on and get the job done. It’s funny how those little moments stick
with you.

JS: Yes, majorly. The South has shaped so much of who I am today. I’ve always loved how differently everyone dresses, and where I’m from, people don’t really follow trends— we just wear what feels right to us that day, that’s when I think real freedom and creativity meet.

Inan Batman: The one place where everyone came together was the youth centre. It was basically a place for kids who didn’t have much else to do. And, luckily for me, they offered a DJ course. It cost five euros for half an hour – I still remember that.

I immediately thought: That’s it. I had grown up with all these different kinds of music – from Turkish folklore to Michael Jackson – and suddenly DJing gave me a tool through which I could bring all of that together. I could reach everyone.

IB:

Exactly. So I started DJing at parties at the youth centre, and from there it kept developing. At the same time, I eventually went to fashion school.

IB:

One hundred percent. It developed very organically.

Back in the days, DJs had to go through all those steps. There wasn’t a shortcut. You bought your own equipment and invested real money. You started as a warm-up DJ, then became a support DJ.

I’m so grateful that I went through all of it because, looking back, I understand how much value there is in those years.

IB:

Exactly. And nobody can take that away from me. There’s an energy and a confidence that comes from all those years.

At some point, my parties in Stuttgart became a bridge between underground and commercial culture. I want the Chanel bags there and the €10,000 tables, but I also want the people who arrive in sneakers because all they want to do is dance. It was very important to me that all worlds existed together. I come from the streets, but I also love luxury. That doesn’t have to contradict each other.

IB:

There was already a beat with a demo vocal. Then Götz recorded the vocals again and put his own signature on it through his voice and the effects.

The lyric says, “You gave me really something, something.” Obviously, you can interpret that however you want. But my music has always had something to do with love. Especially when I’m producing, I often imagine the music almost as a message to a woman.

There’s nothing negative in that world. The thoughts are always positive.

People from my circle – producers, musicians and artists – who have heard the track with his vocal often say that Götz’ voice gives them Sting vibes. There’s a certain melancholy in it.

IB:

I love hip-hop and R&B, but at some point it wasn’t giving me what I needed anymore. I know DJs who still play the same sound they played years ago, and they’re happy with it. But for me, that wasn’t enough.

Then Covid happened, and I thought: This is the moment when I can make the switch to house music. So I did.

The difference is almost physically.

A hip-hop DJ set is punchy. It’s high dopamine all the time. There’s scratching, technique, showing off: Look what I can do. Look where I come from. Look what I’m wearing.

House music says: Enjoy the journey. Some tracks last eight minutes. You close your eyes and you go somewhere.

But I love both worlds. I’ve never felt that I had to exclude one thing in order to become another.