New York on his right wrist, Berlin on his left. Two identical watches help Alex Kryve work across time zones. But when he is with the people he loves, he takes them both off. A conversation that began with this habit became a conversation about creative discipline, personal boundaries, and the words we should not put off saying.
— Alex, why do you wear a watch on each wrist? When did that start?
— When I started working in New York while living in Berlin. I have an app on my phone that shows both time zones, but during rehearsals and work my phone is switched off. I put it in my bag or leave it in another room altogether, so there are no sounds, messages, or calls.
My schedule is busy. I might have an evening rehearsal in Berlin while it is morning in New York, with an online work meeting planned there. After a flight, I can still be confused about the time for a couple of days while I adjust. So my right wrist always shows New York, and my left shows Berlin.
Usually the watches are exactly the same. I buy two at a time, and friends and people I know have learned this about me, so they give me matching pairs too. First, I often break them. Second, I don’t like wearing different ones. If only one survives, it ends up lying around somewhere, or I give it away.
Sometimes there has been a third watch, but that is rare. Usually it is two. And when I’m with my family, I take them off.
— Why?
— Because the time I spend with the people I love should belong entirely to them. That is the most important thing in my life.
My schedule is packed, and I’m quite strict about time. I try not to waste it, and I want the people who work with me or spend time with me not to waste theirs either. It passes so quickly: you turn around and a year has gone, then two, then ten. And there is so much I want to do.
But with my loved ones, I just float away. I love those moments when I don’t have to keep track of time. Perhaps the most important thing in life is how much time you can give to the people who matter to you.
— Have you always felt that way, or did something change your perspective?
— There were moments that changed it. My father died when I was twenty. That was far too early for me. And I was left with regret: I hadn’t managed to tell him something important, hadn’t simply held him close.
Then, in 2017, my own life hung by a thread. It was literally flashing before my eyes, and I realised I hadn’t done the things that mattered most. I hadn’t said what was in my heart. There were people I hadn’t hugged, people I hadn’t spent time with. I’d been afraid, embarrassed, too busy. I’d put off a call.
Those are the things you regret most.
— What changed in the way you communicate with the people closest to you?
— I started learning to express my feelings. Before that, I felt awkward about it. I could speak as someone else, act, express another person’s emotions—anything. But speaking for myself was difficult.
To go to my mother, as a grown man, hold her, hug her, and tell her how much I love her… I thought: surely she already knows. I look after her, help her, give her presents, do what needs doing. Isn’t that how I show my love?
When you are used to being strong, when people rely on you, when you provide and care for others, you develop a particular idea of who you are. And somehow, showing tenderness seems like weakness.
But then you realise you might never have another chance to hug, kiss, or hold someone close. Everything else recedes. The most important thing is to open your heart and say you love them.
You can’t say it “too often.” There is no such thing. Hug them, kiss them, curl up against them like the most shamelessly affectionate cat… Those are the moments that come back to you. And if they never happened, those are the moments you wish you’d had.
— How do you keep that closeness when there are great distances between you?
— We have a family chat. Absolutely anything can go in there: what someone ate, where they went, what they wore, how they woke up. I always have time for the family chat. I might not reply immediately, but I will read it, comment on something, send a voice message.
But I don’t want to put all of that on social media. That is a personal boundary for me. I will cherish and protect my relationships with my family. I’ll fight for them like a lion.
For the people close to me, I can change plans, reschedule meetings, turn down projects. There is nothing to weigh up: I know my priority.
— But work doesn’t leave your mind the moment you take your watches off. How do you switch over?
— I kiss.
The brain isn’t a machine with a button you press to stop thinking about work. You can’t take off your watches and instantly be somewhere else in your head.
But for me, the switch happens when I start kissing. You can simply hug and kiss someone you love, and your thoughts scatter. For me, a kiss is the simplest, quickest way to return to the person beside me.
— Do you ever have time just for yourself?
— Good question. Honestly, I’ve never thought about it. I’m not even entirely sure what that means—time for myself.
Being alone with my thoughts? To me, that feels more like waiting for something. I want to fill that time. If I have a few free minutes, I’d rather take off, drive or fly to the people I love, and spend it with them.
Perhaps that is my time for myself. The best kind.
— And if you can’t fill the pause?
— I think I’m afraid of those moments. Afraid when life goes on pause. Even for fifteen minutes. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t have an answer yet.
— Do you keep watching the clock when you’re creating, too?
— During rehearsals, absolutely. Everything is scheduled, and you have to remember that on the other side of the world, it is a different time altogether.
But when I get absorbed in creative work, I can lose myself. Guilty as charged. Especially in the studio—it can be a real problem. Soundproofing, no outside noise: you feel as if you’re in a vacuum. People who do this will understand. It is very easy to lose your sense of time there.
I have a large digital clock on the wall. But sometimes I come back to myself, look at it, and can’t immediately work out: what time is it? Where am I, even? Studios can look quite alike.
You go in in the morning, while it is still dark. You come out, and it is dark again. Only hunger reminds you that you need to keep some track of time.
My family calls it my creative “binge.” I hardly drink alcohol, but I can disappear into work completely. I promise to mend my ways.
— Can the people close to you pull you out of that state?
— It is better to arrange things in advance. Trying to reach me by phone or message in the studio is a bad idea: the phone is switched off, and I might not pick it up for hours.
But if we have agreed beforehand that we have plans at a certain time, I note that down and keep an eye on the studio clock. Or I leave my phone where I can see it, on silent.
With the distances and time zones, sometimes I know my loved ones are asleep, and I can work without worrying. Then they wake up, we talk, and I go home or back to the hotel. It depends on the situation. The main thing is to agree in advance.
— How do you feel about lateness?
— I don’t like waiting, of course. But I understand that traffic and other things happen. I once got stuck in traffic myself and was an hour and a half late.
For a concert or something very important, you need to plan the journey, leave earlier, look for alternative routes. Take the city and the time of day into account.
For an ordinary meeting, I can wait ten or fifteen minutes. We can speak during that time and work out what is happening: whether to wait or reschedule.
Once, I had an important work meeting. I was in the office when the other person called: he was stuck in traffic, and the map was showing another forty or fifty minutes. In the end, I arranged a ride towards the traffic jam, walked part of the way, and reached his car. We talked right there for about an hour. Then I went back to the office, and he was still stuck.
I could have waited, or I could have found a solution. As long as everyone is alive and well, a great deal can be worked out.
— You said you also try to protect your listeners’ time. What does that mean to you?
— I respect the time of the people who subscribe, follow my work, and write to me. So I’m not going to bombard them with spam.
Sometimes people ask why I don’t post personal photos. But what exactly am I supposed to show? Myself waking up looking rough after a late night? Sitting in sweatpants with a cup of coffee? My breakfast? Which aftershave I use?
That is fine for the family chat. But publicly, I don’t see the point. If people follow my creative work, I want to give them something from that work. And even then, not absolutely everything: every failed take, every intermediate result, every “it worked today” or “it didn’t work today.”
To me, endless scrolling steals time. People get used to scrolling automatically, and they can miss something genuinely interesting.
I look at the statistics and see how much attention the most foolish or vulgar things sometimes attract. But I don’t want to do that for views. I want to respect the people who come across my content.
— Can creativity really follow a schedule? What about inspiration?
— People ask how you can compose by the clock. Quite easily. I don’t have a habit of waiting for the muse to descend.
I’ve met people who drank half the night, then came to the studio, drank coffee until lunchtime, and waited for inspiration. But where is it supposed to come from in that state?
Even with a busy schedule, I try to get seven or eight hours of sleep. In the morning, I go for an energetic walk, a brisk walk or a run. I especially love the early hours, when there are still few people, little noise, few sounds. As you walk, thoughts and ideas begin to appear. You are already entering the process.
Then a shower, breakfast, and you’re ready to work. By the time you get to your workspace, something has already begun to take shape inside you. You start bringing it into being, working on it.
I simply don’t understand sitting around for days, waiting for something to come to you before you can finally begin.
— But not everything can be finished by a particular hour. Are there things that need time to mature?
— Of course. Some songs take several years to mature.
I work on musical concepts for television and series, where there is a specific brief and a deadline. Then there are my own creative projects, more for the soul. Completely different directions: Romani songs, Russian romance, Davydov’s poetry, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century poetry, research programmes. And a great deal more.
Some songs really do sit for years. Then one morning you wake up with the feeling that now, you want to return to this particular piece and finish it.
Some things come quickly. Others mature. That is part of the work too.
— What would you say to someone who wants to take better care of their time? Where should they begin?
— Stop wasting it on rubbish. On endless scrolling and empty things that mean nothing to you.
Set your priorities. Decide what matters most. Try imagining that today is your last day. What would you do? Who would you talk to? About what? What would you say? Who would you hug?
When you start thinking on that scale, a lot changes. We live as if life can stretch forever, as if we still have all the time in the world. But what if there is no tomorrow?
If scrolling your feed really matters most to you, do it. But if there are people you love, perhaps you could spend that time on them? Tell them how much you love them. Maybe you’ve never said it. Maybe it hasn’t even occurred to you that you need to.
Perhaps you want to hug someone, hold them close, kiss them. Or you want someone to hug you. What matters most to you if there is no tomorrow?
For some reason, we often have to face an extreme situation—be hit over the head with a metaphorical brick—to reconsider how we live. Better to get there without it.
Today you might be healthy, strong, sure of yourself. A few hours later, people whose existence you never knew about could be fighting for your life.
So decide what matters to you now. Because it might not even be a whole day that turns out to be your last. It might be a moment.