Let us start right away. What does your maxim—"Money can be hoarded, lifetime cannot"—mean to you personally, precisely in this moment?

This sentence is a constant clarion call to me. It reminds me that everything material remains exchangeable, while every passing hour—like this one right now—is absolutely irretrievable. It reminds me daily that I must not fill my time with things that have no meaning in the end.

Money? I can accumulate it, lose it, and regain it. But time flows inexorably and can never be brought back. I have seen people spend decades building "security," only to miss out on life itself. For me personally, it means checking every morning if what I do today truly deserves these hours. As a musician, I don’t play for fame or a fee, but for the pure experience of sound in exactly this moment. I keep my possessions minimal because baggage robs freedom and burdens time. Ultimately, it is the essence of my philosophy: Live so that at the end you can say your hours were well used.

How did you discover the concept of Ataraxia—the Epicurean tranquility of the soul—and why has it become so central to your existence?

I didn’t find Ataraxia in books initially. I found it in the absolute silence after a concert, when the last note had faded, the applause had died down, and I just sat there. In that silence, I felt for the first time a state where neither desire nor fear reigned. Later, I read Epicurus and realized: that is exactly what is meant—a soul that is no longer tossed to and fro.

Ataraxia became central because it showed me that freedom lies not in the expansion, but in the reduction of needs. As a pianist, I experience it when everything superfluous falls away and only sound and breath remain. It keeps me from losing myself in ambition or comparison. In a world full of artificial drives, it is the only true independence. Without Ataraxia, I might be "successful" today by modern standards, but internally torn. It is the compass for everything I do.

Let's look at the modern landscape. Are streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music having a positive or negative impact on the music world?

It is nuanced. Streaming services are, of course, perfect for musicians who don't have contracts with famous record companies. In the olden days, you had to sign a massive, often restrictive deal just to get a spot on those coveted CD shelves. Now you can remain independent and be heard in the world. This democratization is positive.

However, there is a loss of sanctity. Headphones cannot replace a concert hall. A freshly tuned grand piano in a historic hall with fine acoustics offers an atmosphere that no algorithm can replicate. Streaming is convenient, but it risks turning art into background noise. We must be careful not to let convenience kill the ritual of listening.

What about CDs? Are they dying out in this digital flood?

Not in the classical music branch. I own a lot of CDs and old LPs myself, and every younger and older classical music lover I know does too—some even have an extra room with huge shelves and high-end sound systems. The classical lover is willing to spend more and loves the art and culture as a physical object.

But for many other genres, things are rather dusty. That's why fewer and fewer CDs are produced for genres like rock, hip hop, or pop. The physical connection to the music is fading there, which I think contributes to the fleeting nature of modern fame.

Are people who listen to rock or pop more stingy, or is there a deeper difference?

Not stingy, but for many of these people, art and culture simply don't play a major role in life. Now, that sounds arrogant, but it's often the mass taste of people who follow the herd because "everyone is doing it."

Think of it this way: Where most people go to a burger or coffee franchise because it is quick and predictable, the cultured person wants a nice atmosphere and is looking for a unique eatery or café in the area. They value the experience over the calorie intake. In music, it is the same. Classical listeners are feeding their souls; mass consumers are often just filling the silence.

How does Epicurus’s understanding of "Lust" as the absence of pain translate into your life as a musician?

Lust, or pleasure, for me is the quiet absence of unrest. It is what I experience at the piano when the music flows and the struggle ceases. In this state, there is no audience to please, no future to worry about—only the pure moment. I founded the Golden Bulwark so artists could share this state, instead of consuming themselves in competition.

We create spaces without evaluation, only mutual strengthening. That is Epicurean lust in a community. If I accept a project that brings money but creates stress and "pain," I am violating this principle. True success is the side effect of peace, not the goal.

What is the competition like on Spotify for an aspiring musician?

The competition on Spotify is actually very fair, especially when you record niche repertoire—for example, late romantic composers who died very young, such as Lekeu or Stanchinsky. These are two geniuses who have unfortunately been forgotten. With recordings, you can bring them back to life.

There is a specific audience on Spotify that listens to "Various Composers." Of course, a big label helps, but even pianists who have won major competitions and signed famous contracts are drowning in the crowds sometimes. It has to be unique. If you are just another "perfect" pianist, you are invisible.

You are in popular playlists like "Relaxing Piano Music." How did you achieve this independently?

Quality is everything. It has to be unique, then Spotify's editorial staff will take notice. And patience—a lot of patience. It was always important to me to remain an independent musician. I am the proof that it works without a big record company. The best part? It leaves more of the cake for myself.

Creating something unique is the best move. I have arranged Turkish and Azerbaijani art songs for the piano with a touch of Chopin's style. Something like that is unique and interesting. If you record Chopin's Nocturnes, don't try to imitate Horowitz or Rubinstein. Play it how you feel. Imitation is annoying; distinctiveness is currency.

Let's go back to the beginning. What was the vision when you founded Golden Bulwark in 2015?

When I decided to start Golden Bulwark in 2015 in Mülheim an der Ruhr, I had a clear vision: a global group of young and talented people acting as a unit. We live in a world full of anger and hatred—art is the best medicine against it.

Of course, we cannot change the entire world overnight, but we can make our part of it a better place. It was about creating a "bulwark," a fortress, against the negativity that surrounds young artists. A place where they are safe to create.

The organization is huge now—Investment Club, School of Arts, Orchestra, Production, Magazine. Why such a complex structure?

Because an artist cannot live on air alone. To truly protect the artist, you must provide an ecosystem. The Golden Bulwark School of Arts educates emerging talent. The Orchestra is our central musical heart. Production allows us to record and document our work independently. The Magazine allows us to articulate our thoughts on music, technology, and finance. And the Investment Club? That is to ensure financial independence.

It serves as a community connecting young musicians worldwide to foster collaboration. We provide a human-reviewed matching service for artistic compatibility. It is a holistic approach to the artist's life.

How did your teacher, Peter Feuchtwanger, shape your view on time and tension?

Feuchtwanger was a revelation. He taught me that technique is a means to freedom, not an end. In his lineage to Liszt and Beethoven, I saw that great art arises from inner calm, not from haste.

He showed me how to achieve maximum expression with minimal physical tension. His exercises free the body and thus the soul. He taught me gelassenheit (serenity) at the instrument. Technical perfection without spiritual rest is empty. He was my most important teacher of Ataraxia at the piano.

Is the name "Golden Bulwark"—a fortress—paradoxical to the idea of Epicurean withdrawal?

No, because Epicurus lived secluded in a garden, but surrounded by friends. The Golden Bulwark is a modern garden: a protected space. The "fortress" aspect protects us from the loud, aggressive world, not from people.

It preserves our calm but opens itself to like-minded souls. Withdrawal does not mean isolation; it means conscious selection. The name symbolizes strength through serenity. It is a shelter for Ataraxia.

Epicurus warned against the fear of gods. What are the modern "gods" we fear?

Today, the gods are Consumption, Social Media, and the Pressure to Succeed. They demand constant worship in the form of our time and attention. Consumption promises happiness but only creates new desires. Social Media makes us dependent on "likes" and comparison. Success whips us into an endless future.

These false gods destroy Ataraxia. Rational thinking frees us from them. We must learn to be atheists regarding these modern idols to live in harmony with our nature.

What is the greatest enemy of peace of mind?

The illusion of control. We want to secure money, status, and the future—but life is fleeting. This illusion creates permanent unrest. Acceptance of what we cannot change is the only way to peace.

Many suffer because they try to command the tides. Epicurus teaches us: Limit yourself to what is necessary. The compulsion to control is an unnecessary desire. Letting go is the path to Ataraxia.

What role does art play in an ever-accelerating world?

Art is the last resistance against acceleration. It forces us to slow down and pay attention. A slow Adagio played today is a revolutionary act. In a world full of notifications, art teaches us to pause.

It heals the fragmented soul. Art shows that the essential things take time. Without art, the world would suffocate in its own hectic pace. That is why the world needs the Golden Bulwark more than ever.

How do you deal with the finiteness of time and death?

Epicurus said: "Death means nothing to us." As long as I am, death is not; and when death is, I am not. This clarity frees me from the fear of death.

The finiteness makes every hour precious and urges wisdom. I accept that time is finite, and therefore I use it consciously. Death is not an evil, but a natural limit. This attitude grants composure. I plan not out of fear for a distant future, but out of love for the present.

Is your connection of Western Classical music with Anatolian folk songs an Epicurean act?

Absolutely, because Epicurus was a cosmopolitan. Cultural bridges reduce the fear of the stranger and create harmony. Music is the universal language of rest.

By connecting Bach with Anatolian melodies, I show that the essential is the same everywhere. It enriches without overloading. This synthesis gives me deep Ataraxia personally. Cultural separation creates unrest—connection heals.

Is the search for meaning in career or family compatible with Ataraxia?

Perfectly, if approached correctly. Friendship and family are natural needs that provide pleasure. Career is compatible only if it does not become a source of stress.

Many lose themselves in work, believing that is "meaning." True meaning arises in rest, not in striving. Family can be a garden of Ataraxia. Career must never whip the soul. I see people sacrifice everything and remain empty. Epicurus shows: Limit yourself to the necessary.

How do you integrate Epicurean principles into your own compositions?

My pieces seek clarity, simplicity, and reduction. No superfluous notes—only the necessary in perfection. I compose slowly, in peace, without pressure.

Melodies arise from inner silence. I connect Anatolian scales with minimal harmonics. Each piece should calm the listener, not excite them. Like Epicurus: Less is more. Composition is a meditative exercise for me.

Which composer came closest to Ataraxia?

Johann Sebastian Bach. His music is floating order. It is mathematically perfect and emotionally calm. In the fugues and inventions, there is perfect balance.

No note disturbs the peace of the soul. Even in passionate passages, the structure remains serene. Bach's work is a state without unrest. He is my greatest teacher.

What do you advise young artists in the Golden Bulwark?

Listen to Epicurus: Do not seek fame, seek peace. Share instead of competing—time is too precious for envy. Reduce your needs and practice daily in silence.

Build friendships that support you. Reject projects that grind you down. Play for the joy of the sound, not for applause. Learn slowness as a strength. Use the Golden Bulwark as a shelter. Live so that every hour counts.

How does Ataraxia influence your improvisations at the piano?

In improvisation, Ataraxia shows itself most purely because nothing is planned. I let the sound flow without a goal. No striving for effect, only pure being in the moment.

The fingers move out of rest, not out of will. Anatolian modes meet Bach-like structures—spontaneous and harmonious. There are no mistakes, only variations of silence. It teaches letting go and trust.

How do you spend a perfect hour of your life?

A perfect hour begins with silence and a deep breath. I sit at the piano and play slowly, perhaps Bach, or I improvise. The windows are open, nature is close. No phone, no disturbance—only sound and presence.

Perhaps a friend comes by, and we share tea and thoughts. Simple food, good conversations, laughter without haste. I read a few lines of Epicurus. I go barefoot in the grass. Everything is reduced to the essential. That is lived Ataraxia.

We have reached the end of the cycle. A final word on the meaning of life?

The meaning of life is to find Ataraxia in the limited time we have and to share it with others. Do not seek the "Great," seek the "Essential." Reduce to be free. Share to not be alone.

Play music that orders the soul. Build friendships that carry. Accept finiteness and live intensely. Money can be hoarded—lifetime cannot. Use it wisely, hour by hour. Then the life is fulfilled.