ABOUT ME

I am connecting to sound. I try to make this act of connection itself my practice — connecting to sound through art and through science.

I was born in Berlin and began playing the saxophone as a child. Before my studies, I attended a music-focused secondary school and participated in preparatory programs at Berlin’s state music schools. These experiences led me to the Berlin Youth Jazz Orchestra and the award-winning Berlin Jazz Composers Orchestra JayJayBeC, as well as to my work at the Deutsche Oper Berlin.

I was also drawn to the visual senses — making videos, pictures, and paintings — but it became increasingly clear that I wanted and needed to focus on sound. I was deeply interested in jazz, and at the Jazz Institute Berlin (UdK / Hanns Eisler) I studied saxophone. There I learned new perspectives on practicing and performing, on ear training, music theory, improvisation, and composition.

During my Erasmus semester at the Estonian Academy of Music and Theatre I studied Arvo Pärt and wrote and performed music inspired by him. More and more conceptual and philosophical ideas began to grow in me, and I wrote extensively about a concept I called The Concept of Continuous Concentric Connection. I wanted to expand into other kinds of sound, and so I began studying musicology at Humboldt University. There I am finding a scientific connection to sound — through research, reflective thinking, social sciences, and many different perspectives that deepen this connection for me.

More and more, I feel that I do not want to connect to just one discipline, but to focus on connection to sound itself — freely, authentically, concretely, moving, emerging, and constantly transitioning, just as I described in my concept: perceiving, creating, and sharing.

My background in jazz also taught me this freedom. Yet I often encounter doubt. I wonder whether I am choosing the right focus, where I belong, or whether I will be understood. I sometimes fear that I am making a mistake. I try to believe that these questions are not obstacles but part of the connection itself. They remind me that connection — to sound, to people — is alive, fragile, and always changing. Rather than a fixed destination or rigid system, I see my practice as continuous. The tension between freedom and discipline, doubt and curiosity, uncertainty and commitment is not something to escape. By embracing uncertainty, I allow experimentation, failure, and rediscovery. Each project, performance, and reflection becomes a step in a wider circle of connection — imperfect, concentric, ever-expanding.

Sharing is an essential part of my connection to sound.
Teaching and being taught are not opposite acts for me, but moments of exchange — ways of connecting to one another. I believe that knowledge is not something to own or pass down in a straight line, but something that moves between people, continuously reshaping itself. When I teach or collaborate, I try to create mutual connections — where each person can connect freely to each other and to sound. In this sense, sharing is not only an output, but a process of transformation: of sound, of understanding, of each other. I see myself as someone who tries to connect — an ongoing discovery rather than a fixed system or discipline.

Whether in a saxophone improvisation, a band project, a composition, a sonic installation, politics, private life, teaching, a text, a conversation, or an idea, I search for connection.

The assumption that music is a defined area within the infinite space of possible sounds depends on a particular state of our perceptual structure. When this structure changes — not by growing or improving, but by reorganizing itself — what becomes “musical” also changes. This change is not progress or upward movement, but a transformation of relationship: a rearrangement within the field of how we link sound, time, pattern, and meaning.

In this sense, music does not arise against white noise, but within it — not as an exception, but as one possible form of connection. If we live this connection authentically, openly, and without purpose-orientation, even the accidental can become a surface of resonance — a counterpart defined not by structure in the sound itself, but by structure in the encounter.

Perception then becomes a kind of continuous concentric connection: a constant re-orienting of centers, edges, and transitions, without goal, without growth, without finality. A state in which uncertainty and doubt are not disturbances, but integral elements of our relationship to sound. In the extreme, chance is no longer experienced as chaos, but as radical openness — where every structure appears only temporarily, because it does not lie “in the material,” but in our way of engaging with it.