What does a champion’s breakfast mean to you? Whether it’s nutritional, spiritual, artistic, emotional, intellectual, informative, human, animal, meteorological, or cybernetic—what fuels you at the start of the day?
I’m a very energetic person, and my days are packed with activities, which means I have to invest a lot in myself. My mornings are always active—before diving into the day, I make sure to step outside, breathe in the fresh air (living near a forest in Črnomerec makes this easy), express gratitude for the new day, go over my tasks, stretch well, and then have breakfast.
Usually, it’s a simple, small, healthy organic meal with coffee or tea, followed by sitting down at my laptop or heading out—sometimes to training, rehearsals, workshops, or, occasionally, a morning spent with family and friends. No two mornings are ever quite the same.
What’s been on your mind lately, and what’s driving you? What are you currently working on?
Lately, my thoughts have been preoccupied with time—it often feels like I never have enough of it. While balancing my theater commitments, I’m also training to become a psychodrama therapist, which comes with a lot of coursework and deadlines that I need to meet.
Perhaps that’s my biggest focus right now—figuring out how to best organize my studies while managing everything else.
So far, you’ve written and performed two monodramas—related yet distinctly different. How do you shape and reshape your monodramas? Where do they take form before fully coming to life on stage?
It all begins in a space within me where inspiration sparks—a tiny impulse, a theme—and then I let it unfold naturally.
Most of my creative process happens at home, where I let my imagination run wild, brainstorming around the idea and mapping out a rough plan for how best to shape it. Music plays a huge role—it fuels my imagination. From there, I write down my thoughts, discuss them with collaborators, friends, and colleagues before finally translating everything into a concrete project.
I’m drawn to many subjects, often pulled in various directions by curiosity. But what takes priority is whatever feels most urgent to express at that moment. My themes always revolve around relationships, life, death, love… Everything originates from my little home near the forest, and my inspiration comes from life itself, experiences, and nature.
Have you performed in non-traditional theater spaces? Which ones have you explored, and which would you like to? What kind of setting suits you best as a performer?
Of course—every independent artist encounters venues where performances must adapt to the given space. We’re all used to that by now. There have been many interesting locations, but theaters remain the best setting, as they provide all the necessary conditions for creating magic on stage.
However, sometimes the space itself becomes part of the performance’s character. I’d love to perform in beautiful, unexpected locations—in city streets, by a river… That kind of theater is fascinating because the surroundings become part of the performance, and audiences experience it in a new way.
I’ve had the chance to perform in town squares, historic city centers, and stunning islands. In the end, it all depends on the project—any space can be special if it enhances the story I want to tell.
And where do you fit best when you’re not performing? Show us!
With friends, or sometimes with a good movie, at home, enjoying a peaceful night’s sleep. Rest is essential, and we often don’t allow ourselves enough of it.
Where do you go for the best silence?
To the forest, to nature, on a walk! The forest is my sanctuary.
Death is the one thing that resists representation, the one experience we cannot truly have (and remain alive), the one thing we cannot even dream. How did you approach death in Final Act, and what was one of the most interesting things you learned during the process?
Death is always present in our thoughts, yet it remains outside our tangible experience—it’s always there, but we can never truly grasp it. In Final Act, I approached it through fragments, through what lingers—gestures, memories, rituals. I wasn’t interested in illustrating death but rather exploring its presence in life, in the body, in theater—while also celebrating life itself.
One of the most intriguing discoveries was how the body reacts to the concept of vanishing. How movement can erode, become less visible, almost imperceptible, yet still powerfully embody absence. Through this process, I also realized how inseparable death is from life—how it teaches us the value of living and urges us to be truly present.
Your work intertwines voice and body; where do you think its roots lie, and where is its canopy?
I’d say the roots are deep in the body, in breath, in what’s unconscious yet ever-present—impulse, vibration, resonance. Voice and body are not separate; they breathe together. I’m always curious about where they intersect, where one transforms into the other.
And the canopy? Maybe it’s the performance space—the moment everything is released, when it becomes something greater than just me. Maybe it’s relationships—with the audience, the space, other bodies on stage. Or maybe it’s something intangible—the lingering presence, a feeling that stays in the air, in memory, in something beyond words.
What can the voice do? What can only the voice do?
The voice is an incredibly powerful tool. It can carry emotion, story, body, and space—it can create rhythm, open up the sky, or close the heart. It’s a bridge between the inner and outer world, giving life to the immaterial.
What can only the voice do? It can communicate deep, unspoken truths. It can express something that words alone fail to capture. It can carve out a space where everything is heard, where everything becomes clear, and yet, sometimes, it says nothing at all.
What is the body when it has no voice?
A body without a voice is like a silent witness—holding emotions and thoughts it cannot put into words. And yet, it remains fully present, through movement, breath, muscle tension, and release. Without a voice, the body becomes a sea of signals—not always verbalized, but deeply felt.
Maybe it’s not the voice that defines the body, but rather the silence in which the body carries everything unsaid, yet profoundly sensed.
Is music, by its nature, more movement or body?
Music is both movement and body, but perhaps at its core, it is movement. It flows, evolves, follows rhythm, sweeps us into its energy. Its essence is in its waves, its tempo, every sound traveling through space and body.
But music is also tangible—it has texture, shape, matter. We feel it in our bodies; it touches our skin, sends vibrations through us. Maybe music is movement that gives body—because it sets things in motion yet leaves an imprint, a shape, deep within us.
For me, music is a dance between body and movement, between sound and silence—a constant dialogue between what we hear and what we feel.
What could the voice of the future be? From where might it come, and how might it sound?
Technology—AI, vocal transformation devices, bioengineering—could open new, unimaginable possibilities for the voice.
But what I truly hope for is more freedom for every individual to use their voice without fear—to be authentic, imperfect, and, in that imperfection, uniquely perfect and truly themselves.