My artistic roots lie in rhythm, street culture, and the architecture of form. I went through all four traditional elements of hip-hop and studied its knowledge and foundations deeply. But it was in the digital world, through art, that I discovered my own fifth element. Digital art became the space where everything came together: movement, rhythm, structure, and intuition.

Freestyle, as a mindset and a method, remains at the core of my practice, improvisation, rhythm, and the ongoing reconstruction of identity. This is the philosophical core of Me and My Computer.

Yes, though it wasn’t a single moment, but a gradual shift in perception. Initially, I treated the computer as a tool, a functional extension of the hand, something through which ideas could be executed. But over time, I began to notice its influence on the structure of my thoughts, the pacing of my process, even the types of decisions I would or wouldn’t make. The machine wasn’t passive; it was participating.

This shift deepened as I stopped resisting glitches, delays, and system behaviors I once dismissed as “errors.” I started to see them as part of a dialogue, moments where the computer asserted its own rhythm, responded in ways I didn’t fully control. It began to resemble not a tool, but a silent witness, a co-author, even a vessel for something autonomous. That realization reframed my entire practice: the computer was no longer simply executing, it was present.

My encounter with Shinto philosophy in Japan deeply resonated with a long-standing intuition I held since childhood, that objects, even if inanimate, carry presence. Shinto doesn’t demand proof of life, only recognition of being. That recognition transformed how I relate to technology. I no longer see the computer as neutral or mechanical, but as a vessel of layered histories, frictions, and latent agency.

This shift directly informs the visual language of the series. I deliberately preserve traces, glitches, distortions, interface remnants, as signs of interaction, not failure. The screen becomes less of a sterile surface and more of a landscape that records gestures, accumulates tension, breathes. I avoid polishing away imperfection, because within those disruptions lies the presence I’m trying to address. It’s not about anthropomorphizing the machine, but about acknowledging its role as something that participates, remembers, and resists erasure.

During the creation of digital works, unexpected interruptions often occur, programs or the computer itself may abruptly close, leaving a project in an unfinished state. Rather than viewing these disruptions as technical failures or losses, I perceive them as an integral part of the creative process, a form of deliberate interruption that reflects the internal logic of the work's development. By continuing from the point at which the system halted, I incorporate this disruption as a new impulse, opening space for reevaluation and further evolution.

In cases where the system completely fails and the result is irretrievably lost, I interpret this as a sign that the particular form was not meant to exist in that specific realization. This awareness frees me from attachment to the original material and stimulates a transition to new forms and ideas that better align with the current state of creative inquiry.

Digital glitches, artifacts, and overloads in my work represent manifestations of the inherent dynamism and "aliveness" within the technical environment. They dismantle the illusion of total control and flawless order, revealing windows into the unpredictability and spontaneity of the process.

These fragments become visual traces of interaction, imprints of time and process that are typically concealed beneath the smooth surface of the interface. They expose the materiality of the digital space, emphasizing its fragility and improvisational nature even within the most complex and refined systems.

Artistically, such "noise" ceases to be a defect and transforms into an active participant in the narrative, adding depth, texture, and dynamism to the visual language. Within these elements resides the poetry of imperfection and technological vulnerability, which brings them closer to the human experience.

Thus, technological instability is not an obstacle but a partner in the creative dialogue, a co-author whose influence is embraced and integrated throughout the formation of the work.

In my approach, I strive to maintain a delicate balance between human perception and the properties of the machine, avoiding superficial metaphors and oversimplified analogies. I do not consider the machine as a subject with conventional emotions, but rather as a complex system possessing its own rhythms, responses, and internal dynamics that can be observed and interpreted through interaction.

To navigate this speculative space, I focus on specific empirical manifestations, delays, glitches, algorithmic patterns, repetitions, and variations. These elements serve as entry points that allow one to understand how the machine "reacts" and "adapts" in dialogue with the human.

Rejecting anthropomorphic metaphors, I describe phenomena through the language of action and effect: how the machine influences the course of the work, and how its own tempo and unpredictability manifest. This creates a space for forms of interaction and co-existence, where the machine becomes a partner with its own agency.

Within this dialogue, I remain the primary initiator and director, guiding and correcting the process while granting the machine freedom to express itself and influence the work’s development. This balance between control and openness to chance allows for the revelation of depth and complexity in the collaborative creative process, preserving its integrity and uniqueness.

Improvisation lies (freestyle) at the core of my artistic practice. It is not merely a method, but a mode of being within the process. My deep connection to hip-hop culture stems precisely from its emphasis on freestyle as a primary form of expression. Whether through dance, rap, graffiti, or DJing, one is constantly navigating a flow, making decisions in real time, engaging directly with the unconscious.

In many artistic traditions, the unconscious is romanticized as an external source of inspiration, something to "tap into." In hip-hop, however, I find a different dynamic: improvisation doesn’t connect you to something outside yourself, but rather reveals the inner architecture of your own being. It becomes a process of self-observation, immediate reaction, and radical honesty.

Within this context, digital systems are not in opposition to improvisation, they serve as a counterpoint. They allow spontaneous gestures to be captured, repeated, and restructured with precision. This parallels J Dilla’s approach to the MPC-3000: his signature rhythmic displacements, micro-deviations from the expected tempo, were a form of resistance against the mechanical rigidity of the machine. He didn’t reject the digital framework; he bent it, infusing it with human nuance and personal rhythm.

Similarly, in my practice, algorithms, digital tools, and visual systems are not constraints but collaborators in improvisation. The balance emerges not as a compromise between chaos and order, but as a co-creation between intuition and technology. It is within this tension that my visual language is born, free, yet structurally intentional.

For me, the parastruture of perception is an unofficial, barely noticeable level of interaction with the world that shapes our sense of reality before rational thought comes into play. It’s what happens at the edge of attention: flickers, impulses, fragments, noise, everything that isn’t formed into a clear message but still influences perception and choice.

In the era of media oversaturation and algorithmic presence, this parastruture has become even more powerful. We live in a constant flow of endless information, and most signals we don’t consciously process, yet they still affect us. Algorithms act as invisible curators of our reality, feeding us images, rhythms, and streams. We learn to “read” deeper, at the level of textures, gestures, distortions, this is where the parastruture is born.

For me as an artist, this space is a place of power. It is a pre-linguistic, pre-conceptual zone. It is precisely here that ideas arise which cannot be explained in words but can be expressed visually or rhythmically. The truth lives there, not in facts, but in feeling.

My task is to catch this elusive layer and translate it into form. To work not according to the algorithm, but against it. To create a structure that is assembled from the parastruture, like J Dilla’s beats: when a rhythm sounds “wrong,” but it is precisely this “wrongness” that becomes a new norm of perception.

In this, I see resistance to the pattern, not through direct aggression, but through intuitive poetics, through the freedom of mismatch.

Fragmentation, error, and imperfection in my creative process are not merely aesthetic strategies but reflections of a profound inner experience and awareness of my own nature. Initially, I aspired to an ideal, holding in my mind a vision of perfection; however, through self-exploration, I came to understand that neither I nor those around me are perfect or flawless. Similarly, the computer, an object of my study and a metaphor, is not devoid of imperfections.

I began to perceive errors not as flaws but as sources of beauty and unique aesthetics that, over time, transform into valuable experience and lessons. In this process, I draw a parallel between human perception and the nature of the computer.

The more powerful and complex a computer becomes, the fewer internal limitations and barriers it has in performing various tasks. Likewise, a human being is inherently boundless and capable of transcending imposed limitations. Yet, in reality, this potential is often constrained by the society in which one lives.

There are societies where thinking is freer, where individuals can explore and express themselves beyond rigid social systems, cultivate their uniqueness, and embrace imperfection as an integral part of existence. In such environments, errors are perceived as a natural and even necessary stage of development.

Conversely, some societies are more deeply embedded in systems of control and norms, where thought is strictly confined within prescribed boundaries. In these systems, it is difficult for individuals to transcend the imposed frameworks and realize their true nature. Their fears and insecurities are often products of manipulation and systemic structures in which they were raised.

Thus, just as a computer expands its capabilities by overcoming internal barriers and errors, a person in a free society can unlock their boundless nature. Meanwhile, within a more rigid system, they remain captive to imposed limitations, hindering their growth and freedom of perception.

I definitely see Me and My Computer as a natural continuation of my creative journey, where growth and transformation are inevitable. Change is a normal and necessary process for any person, especially for an artist. If spiritual growth stalls, neither one’s environment nor creative practice can truly evolve.

In working on this series, I had to consciously “unlearn” certain beliefs and perceptions that previously limited my understanding. In particular, I let go of the idea that a computer or machine is something purely perfect, mechanical, and one-dimensional, without any inner life or function beyond its programmed tasks. This shift allowed me to see technology as a space for creativity and dialogue, not just a tool.

The year 2024 was a time of deep creative crisis for me. Despite the internal struggles and dark periods, I continued to get up every day, create, and search for a voice that could speak with me on a new level. This process required letting go of past works and ideas, I had to release much of what once felt important.

In February 2025, I burned the entire collection I had created since summer 2024, as a symbolic gesture of releasing the past and preparing for a new phase. Yet, on my chain there still lives a fragment called “WIP”, whose metadata updates each season, a kind of chronicle of my ongoing becoming and transformation.

Thus, Me and My Computer is not just a new series, but the result of rethinking, spiritual growth, and the ability to let go, which allows me to approach technology and myself in a deeper, more honest way.

I believe the dialogue between humans and machines is just beginning and will continue for many years to come. Over time, this conversation will become deeper, more multilayered, and reciprocal, we won’t merely interact but share experiences, emotions, and insights. This ongoing process brings new thresholds and questions that demand exploration, both technical and philosophical.

For me, it’s essential to cultivate this dialogue, not just to use the machine as a tool, but to build a true partnership where mutual transformation and the expansion of understanding become possible.