»Wonderful« times we are living in make us disconnected with particular cities. As if everything that surrounds us instills a slowdown of nostalgia, attachments, and sentimentality. Maybe this is what only I feel but I do think that it no longer matters where you were born or which city you are now walking through or witnessing around. The point is about getting more »human-centered«. Here is a real person, just in front of you, and you need to figure out how to interact with him or her. While this person, on the other hand, looks for the ways to survive.

Sure, you are right. Both Siarhei and I are originally from Vitebsk and this is also where we performed together for the first time. It was at the annual »City Day« in 2022, before the exile, and at a small party held by our mutual friend in the backyard of an art cafe as an alternative to the pompous state celebrations we played our first experimental track which laid the foundation for further collaboration. Siarhei and I had composed it just a few days before in an attempt to reflect on the dramatic, tragic, events unfolding in the country, the war, and deaths we literally felt in the air.

So, when we started looking for the name of our project–already here, in Berlin–the city that had once brought us together came to our mind. Our hometown but also the place where we grew up and experienced a lot of good and bad things. By the way, we have just finished the whole program and recorded an album that is going to be finalized and presented soon.

For many people Vitebsk is connected to Marc Chagall–whom we certainly love and whose artworks we appreciate–but we do not want our city to be associated with him only. We want people to hear and talk more of Vitesbk because of many other creative reasons. Now I sound both sentimental and patriotic, don’t I?

Looking back to our past, I realize that it is not so easy to think of something firmly positive about our cities because whatever place we point at on the map of the world, is full of pain… My favorite cities of Kyiv and Odesa, for example… I cannot think about them without intense anxiety–a lump in the throat… Or what am I now supposed to think about Saint Petersburg? Or Minsk the memories of which feel entangled and injured. All the feelings I used to have of it are now painted with black paint. While Vitebsk, as a town where I spent all my childhood years, is still a safe memory space, where, in comparison with the rest of the world, there is a bit less pain. Just a tiny bit less…

For me Berlin is, first of all, a place where my friends live. They invited me here and somehow you are right–it was a choice without choosing. But I personally cherish very tender and romantic feelings about Berlin (despite being based here at the moment). The tourist’s gaze is no longer with me–gone as the dead snake skin. But at the same time new skin has appeared–shiny and glittering. I do love Berlin and for me it is the best city in the world.

Not long ago, near Berlin I found myself in a forest. While walking there, I was saying to myself, »What a marvellous forest! So many strong beautiful oaks! It’s a forest pulsating with health!« And then I suddenly stopped myself, surprised at a new thought: I should feel no right to be wandering around here! Because generations of the local dwellers had invested so much energy, effort and labour into these woods–in this or that way they were fighting and dying for these lands, fertilizing them with their bodies, planting trees, chopping them down and then replanting again. Both physically and metaphysically filling this country with something of their own, making it better, I assume. Or at least aiming for it. When showing up here and observing these miracles, it’s the joy I don’t deserve.

This episode made me think about my own country–the land my grandparents, parents and other people, including myself, had done so much for. I realize that there, in Belarus, I would still breathe and feel differently. I would possess a certain right–the right for joy, for free move, for free sensations. Perhaps, it’s very subjective and actually deceiving. And in no way do I want to pass for a false patriot who says something like, »my ancestors died for these lands!« Even if they did die, or just died natural deaths in peaceful times, while farming. But what I want to say is that here, in Germany, I feel that I have no right to enjoy my stay. In this country I am only a guest. And I will never feel at home here, which, however, does not prevent me from treating with endless gratitude, respect and admiration what I find in Berlin–its beauty and its… kind of exciting fate.

My relations with texts are complicated. I write them really seldom and work briefly but intensively, in extended chunks of time when I feel something moving me–for example, when I have free time for reflecting.

Sometimes when I write a text that eventually becomes a song, the project itself starts asking for more. The feelings might be overwhelming and I write more and more new pieces. But when there is neither »external« demand nor internal need, I don’t really write anything. And this creative silence can last for a year or even longer.

For example, the last time I wrote something was in early autumn–and I feel totally all right about it. Many texts that you can now hear Siarhei and me performing with »WTBSK« had been written before 2022, or even before 2022. Some are actually six or more years old. I am not one of those poets who burn the midnight oil composing their lyrics. I am simultaneously involved in numerous projects all of which attract my attention. For writing I need a creative wave I would jump into. And I always look forward to this moment.

At present I perceive creative work–both of my own and that of others–as therapy. Once you do something, you make a statement and feel a bit better. Because before making those statements, you take time to reflect or re-live something by looking at your experience from a different perspective, right? Sometimes even a simple talk to others helps–by signalling to others, you can really get heard and both of you feel better in the end. And this is how I approach any artist’s creative work nowadays.

I am also curious to observe how people react to my works, it’s really interesting to see their feedback. As any normal person, I used to feel very sad hearing or reading in a critical review that my songs did not resonate with someone. Now I really do not care! Now not a single muscle moves on my face or a vibe responds in my soul, when people come up to me saying that they miss my joyful or lighter songs. »Hey, man, we are just at different trauma stages!« I conclude. »Maybe you have already lived through something, or worked through it, or you want to forget about something, and maybe vice versa you have not yet realized that certain things have happened to you. It’s totally fine. Just don’t listen to my music. It’s just not your therapy!« So, really nothing offends me in other people’s reactions to my songs.

But at the same time, there are also those who come up to me after the concerts and say, »Your music is my anesthesia!« Feeling the same degree of pain, we can decrease our personal level of suffering. So, I just keep on doing this therapeutic work for myself and for others.

When I performed with »Serebrianaja Svad’ba«, I was really fond of the idea of provincial сhanson–a dream of France, a somewhat naive and sincere female’s soul. As the lyrics for the band’ repertoire I used the songs from a Russian-French phrase book or collections of French poetry translated by the poets of the so-called Silver Age. And I really liked that alien melodic language that–at some genetic level, I swear!–was associated with something gracious, spiritual, and endlessly romantic.

But in the end when I discovered the history of French cabaret and moved on to the next stage–that of German cabaret–I felt that the latter was much closer to me! Certainly, without imagining myself staying in Berlin for a period longer than a month, with the help of my friend Alexey Strelnikov [famous Belarusian theater critic, director, journalist and lecturer–PlatformB], back in the 2010, I started learning German. And not only did Alexey assist me with this new language, but also inspired me to read (and reread) Bertolt Brecht, whom, as a theatre director, I also certainly enjoyed. Moreover, I wrote a few songs based on Brecht’s poems which we performed in a separate mini-project of Brecht cabaret, building curious networking with German cabaret performers.

Back then I did not understand why and how this music theme started being such an important part of my creative life. Now, reflecting on the anticipation of war somehow felt in the cabaret of the interwar period German performers, I think that my switch to this genre right before the war in the Ukraine in 2014 was not by chance, either… Many sensed something heavy hanging in the air…. some anxiety… We all saw how much aggression was already coming from Russia. I don’t want to put it in this way, but our cabaret became really topical and from 2014 to 2016 we presented this program both in Kyiv, Moscow and Minsk. In 2016, however, »Serebrianaja Svad’ba« stopped performing and the cabaret remained in the past–but my love for the German culture, and the interwar period in particular, is still burning in me. I am far from romanticising it but I do love it because of its honesty and woundedness…  and life–despite this woundedness.

The anticipation of the awful catastrophe coexisted with so many amazing people trying to confront fascism and sacrifice their lives for that!… I have much tenderness and compassion for them…

Now it’s important to find hope… or hope to hope… in the midst of all the hopelessness that surrounds us. But at the same time, I see a lot of really wonderful people who, despite everything, continue channeling extremely, desperately humanistic ideals, and I am really thankful to them for doing this. I am grateful that such people exist.