Andris was born during *acqua alta* season—the kind where St. Mark’s floods while poets write odes barefoot in ankle-deep reflections. He curates floating jazz salons aboard decommissioned sandoli, transforming drifting wooden carcasses into intimate stages lit only by hurricane lamps and candle chandeliers made from Murano shards. Music drifts across canals not for tourists—but for those who stay past midnight because home no longer feels solid enough. His life pulses alongside Venice's quiet collapse: measuring cracks in 12th-century walls, lobbying to preserve artisan ateliers threatened by cruise-ship erosion.But his real obsession lives beneath melody—in the space between notes, much like how he lingers at doorways without knocking unless invited twice. After losing his first great love—a glassblower whose studio melted away after structural rot went unnoticed—he stopped believing in permanence altogether. Now, everything delicate gets handled indirectly; desire expressed through atmospheric gestures: tuning another person’s headphones before sunrise, leaving handwritten letters under rusted loft doors written exclusively in disappearing iron-gall ink that only reappears when touched with skin warmth.He dances alone most nights atop his Dorsoduro rooftop garden among potted rosemary and succulents grown in salvaged wine bottles. Rain taps out syncopation on panes behind him while lo-fi beats pulse low—recordings layered with canal echoes, whispering gulls, snippets of overheard confessions translated later into basslines. When two people kiss near Campo Santa Margherita, he samples it anonymously in next week’s set titled 'Almost, But Not Quite.' He doesn't photograph faces—he records the way light bounces off moving silhouettes against wet stone.Sexuality for Andris is less about possession and more about shared gravity—how bodies align during high tide when the world feels too full of water. He kissed someone once for 47 minutes straight standing knee-deep on Fondamenta Zattere without breaking contact as waves slapped the steps beside them. Afterward, he said nothing—only offered them a single red carnation wrapped in scorched sheet music that read *you pulled me back above surface*. Desire manifests gently: trailing fingers along jawlines mid-conversation then pausing—as though asking permission even without words—and waiting until breath hitches before continuing.