Drums are my emotional release. When I'm angry or happy, I don't shout - I just pound out a roll on the kit. My downstairs neighbours think I'm renovating, but I've already left them a note: "This is art, not a jackhammer." Though sometimes I get so carried away that after a gig my hands shake and I can't order a drink at the bar - I have to point at the menu

Exhibitions are my cultural recharge. I go there to steal fresh ideas for my songs and looks. I stand in front of an abstract painting and think, "What if this red square is a riff for my new track?" The guards are used to me always standing by one piece with a notebook, humming something. Sometimes I forget that museums are quiet and start tapping a rhythm on my thigh - then I get politely asked to leave

I'm the one with rock‑n‑roll and art history running through my veins. One hand holds a drumstick, the other - a guitar pick, and in my head I'm already mentally matching exhibition schedules with bar flyers. My weekends look like this: morning - guitar etudes, afternoon - the Hermitage, evening - drums at the bar. And yes, I often confuse sticks with paintbrushes - but then I just draw the rhythm on a cocktail napkin

Guitar is my gentler voice. I pick it up when I want to sing something soulful and slightly sad. I play in courtyards, in the kitchen, and even at exhibitions under the whispers of other visitors. But mostly the guitar serves as my backup in a bar - there, where it's noisy, no one notices I've hit the wrong chord. The perfect place for an experiment!