“VENERA” is a loaded word — soft, seductive, celestial — but also burning with myth and meaning. Why did you choose it for your new event series?  What’s the tie to you personally, beyond the symbolism?

At first, I considered going with something more accessible in English— a more familiar name that might immediately click with people. But “Venera” kept pulling me in. It’s the Slavic word for Venus, both the goddess and the planet, and it also echoes the Italian venerare, meaning “to worship.” That convergence of myth, language, and reverence felt too powerful to ignore.

Venus has always been a figure orbiting my life. As a child, I was fascinated by Aphrodite. I would obsessively read about her, and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus was a painting I adored from afar until I finally saw it in person at the Uffizi in my early 20s— a full-circle moment. Even my university thesis was titled Venus in Latex— it explored post-fetishism in the context of my final year collection at UAL. I’m a Libra too, ruled by Venus in astrology, so you could say the connection is written in the stars.

But what I love most is the contrast: Venus is seen as an object of beauty and desire, yet she’s also the hottest planet in our solar system— intense, impossible to touch. That duality is what I want to channel through VENERA. It’s not just about aesthetics or sensible softness, but about power, heat, transformation.

VENERA is worship— not of a deity, but of the self. It’s an invitation to step into something expansive and unfamiliar, to explore sound and sensation in ways that push past our own limits. It’s celestial, yes, but also deeply grounded in the strength and complexity of femininity. The limit does not exist!

Furthermore you talk about this idea of the “Age of Venera,” a kind of neo-Venus moment — what does this era feel like to you? Is it about a cultural shift in how we see femininity, power, and pleasure or something grittier?

To me, the Age of Venera is a kind of personal and collective renaissance— a rebirth of sensuality and vision. It challenges today’s contradictions: on one hand, femininity is undervalued and exploited; on the other, it’s commercialised into a soft, controlled ideal. This movement resists both, embracing a raw form that’s free from old expectations.

Just like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus symbolised a cultural awakening after the darkness of the Middle Ages, this moment feels like stepping into something luminous after a long period of constraint. I feel like I’m in that era now, and I want to channel that energy into VENERA. Venus is painted in the nude, not due to perversity, but because she has nothing to hide. In the same vein, VENERA is about reclaiming beauty, pleasure, and presence as vital forces, not superficial indulgences.

Beyond femininity, Venus is an icon— instantly recognisable, undeniable. That’s the kind of energy I want this project to carry. VENERA is a platform for people who lead with vision and aura: not trend-chasing, but trailblazing. It’s about carving space for the bold, the magnetic, the ones who make you feel something in your gut. Coming out of your shell, if you will.

There’s something almost radical in how you bring the underground into the light — how do you approach “commercialising” it in a way that still feels honest, like letting niche scenes breathe without selling them out?

“Selling out” is such a loaded term, but to me, if something starts breaking through, that doesn’t automatically cheapen it. It just means it’s resonating with more people. I find that it’s about recontextualising rather than commercialising— I want to use that reach to open doors, to guide people towards sounds they might not have sought out, by pairing names they know with ones they maybe haven’t met yet. Bringing the underground into broader spaces doesn’t mean diluting it, it means trusting its energy can hold its own.

I’d love to revive that original meaning of ‘rave’— wild, joyful, a little unhinged— through sets that aren’t afraid of being outrageous, emotional, a rollercoaster for the senses. That’s the spirit I want to protect and platform. VENERA can live in a basement or on a massive stage, but the core is always about uncontrived feeling, not fitting into a box. ‘Hot’ as a mindset. It’s not about genre boundaries, it’s about emotional impact— if you come for one thing and leave loving something unexpected, then I’ve done my part.

There’s a kind of playful hedonism in your aesthetic — a lust for hot fun, but it’s never shallow. It’s camp with claws. What draws you to that kind of energy?

Honestly? Probably stoicism. (laughs) I’ve gone through every possible existential loop and landed somewhere between absurdism and acceptance— nothing really matters, so why not have fun with it? Because if you can laugh, dance, and still provoke a thought? That’s the sweet spot.

A lot of my aesthetic and humor is referential, it’s indeed camp with context (shoutout to unlimited internet access in my formative years). I’m drawn to pleasure that’s self-aware— not reckless, but intentional. A kind of hedonism without destruction, something serene but rooted in tongue-in-cheek humour, and sensory excess. In a scene that often glorifies minimalism or takes itself too seriously, I appreciate embracing the opposite: maximalism with meaning, a calculated kind of kitsch. I love to see it as a meta caricature with layers upon layers of references— so post-ironic it loops back around to sincerity. I live for a double-take.

Authenticity, originality, popularity — where do you place yourself between those forces? Do you believe in an innate ‘authentic self’? Do you think identity is something we discover or something we build?

I think it’s both: identity is part discovery, part construction. There may be seeds of something innate in us, but what really defines us is how we act on them. The self isn’t a fixed point you arrive at, it’s a continuous process. Not what you do, but how you move through decisions, how you adapt, how you shape things and let them shape you in return.

To me, authenticity isn’t about staying the same or being instantly legible, like a cartoon character with a handful of recognisable traits— it’s about being intentional in how you evolve. Not chasing uniqueness for the sake of it, and definitely not sanding down your edges to be a better product. I just try to build things that feel real to where I’m at, knowing that’ll change too. The final product is never really final. The self is in the becoming.

How do you stay honest while navigating the industry’s expectations of what a DJ should be or look like — especially when what works for others might not reflect your truth?

There’s pressure to mimic what “works”— the tone, the type of content, the algorithm-friendly formula. But I try to resist that loop. If everyone’s blindly following each other’s steps, where does authenticity live?

Social media trains us to chase the peak drop, the crowd shot, the “[City Name] what was that??” caption on repeat. I’ve fallen into that formula too—same edits, same angles. But lately I’ve been stepping back to ask: what do I actually enjoy sharing? What do I wish I saw more of?

I think there’s space for more imagination. Less of the DJ’s back-of-the-head, more personality, humor, context. In the end, I’d rather be recognised for doing it my way than dilute myself to stay “palatable.” Definitely a work in progress.

Tour life can be brutal. Flipping between collective euphoria and solitary silence—how do you navigate that swing? How do you keep from losing your grip when the party ends and it’s just you and your thoughts alone in a hotel room or on the road? What dirty little rituals or savage self-care hacks pull you back from the edge?

The trick for me is genuinely thriving in solitary silence. That’s my comfort zone. It’s the collective euphoria that challenges me more, but only in retrospect. When I’m around people, I have this instinct to show up fully— be fun, be present, hold the energy so everyone else has a good time. Sometimes that means going past my own limits without realising it in the moment.

But I don’t spiral after a night that went on too long, I just give myself space to decompress. I travel with a speaker and play healing frequencies if needed, I look for little local treats that give me a sense of novelty, but I always return to my staples: soft pyjamas, trashy TV, room service in bed. Mundane comforts keep me sane in this lifestyle. I need a bit of structure, even if it’s silly. It’s always about living in contrast.