We are all
in this .
I AM YOU at Bonjuk Bay. Somewhere between a festival and a retreat.
A personal perspective by Ole Ukena · 23 October 2026
Picture this.
My friend Catalina, who I know from Berlin and who plays as Alma Linda, is behind the decks in this somehow magical bay in Turkey.
A tear rolls from her right eye. Her mouth moves with the words of the song. On the left, a faint line of mascara tells me another tear has already made its way down.
The song is about overcoming struggle and suffering, and the love of house music. The emotion is real.
Then, behind her, to the left, an alien stands. Not giving a fuck, but in the best way possible.
A wobbly alien. A seemingly self-crafted gadget refined to ultra-weirdo level thirty thousand and one. The little dingli-dangli antennas are doing the wibble-wobble on repeat. They bounce. They wobble.
And now I’m thinking about straight lines.
As I write this, Alan Watts is still ringing in my ears from a podcast I heard last night. Straight lines. Right angles. Signs of human presence. We live in square boxes, then come out here and look at the bay, the trees, each other.
Life itself is a wobble. It’s curves. It’s a dance. Why are we trying to make it into straight lines?
Where was I again?
I look at the alien. He’s on point.
Did he exist before? Where did he come from?
Well, we don’t know. He’s here now.
Another tear. The song builds towards its crescendo, screaming out the pain, calling us together.
I peep to the right. Another weird being. A mermaid, lying on a couch that’s just been carried in.
Is that it? No. What are they doing?
Ah, yes. They’re bringing... what is that? A fountain? A chocolate fountain?
Yes. Of course it’s a chocolate fountain.
Strawberries.
The alien is still wobbling. Behind the decks, suffering is voluntarily tipsily transformed into gluten-free galactic participation vouchers. I look around and think: well, I guess this is it.
I’m not really sure why we’re here on this planet. But little moments like this make life worth living. Everything compressed into a single scene.
You couldn’t script this. None of it was planned. The timing of the song, the mermaid being carried in, the wiggly alien appearing out of nowhere behind the DJ booth.
All of this makes no sense. And it makes a hundred fucking percent sense at the same time.
My analytical brain gives up and says, “Yeah, well, I guess I’m out of here.”
Alma Linda & the mermaid · 1:22, with sound
In the middle of it
Arriving.
A coordinate in space and time for our professional weirdos to come together and see what we could make.
A friend had told me about Bonjuk Bay. You know how it goes: a few pictures, a few stories, and you build a place in your head. I don’t know exactly what I expected. I didn’t expect to arrive and feel like family.
The sea. The sunsets. The sauna. Wow.
For about a year, Deer Jade and I have been building I AM YOU together. I’ve been working on the bigger vision of bringing art forms together. The music, the covers, the videos, the people making them. I’ve been at some of the events, though not all.
Here, faces I knew from video calls were suddenly in front of me. I could see things coming together, meet the people, feel their response. Oh, God. There’s something in this.
People see me as outgoing. And I am. But I’m an extroverted introvert. I need a lot of time alone, and new groups can feel like a lot.
Here, I quickly felt comfortable. There was friendship, depth, an actual meeting with another person. I didn’t feel I had to do the five-minute hug and call someone my sister before we’d even got to know each other.
Being around all that talent felt inviting. I could play, try something unfamiliar, pick a song, let loose a little, see where it went. I wasn’t so caught up in what it had to become or how I came across. I was there, with these people, and we were bringing things out of each other.
What stayed with me was the human touch. The care in the details. The Bonjuk Bay team noticing what was happening and adding something we hadn’t planned. Yes, and here’s a mermaid. Yes, and here’s a chocolate fountain. And the strawberries are being passed around. Well, you get it.
A little idea, taken as far as it can go.
And the people themselves. That little spark. Something off the regular path. The artist’s way. The way around the corner. Whatever way brought you here.
It never felt like I AM YOU on one side and Bonjuk Bay on the other. We’d stepped into a family that was already there.
Somewhere in between.
Somewhere between a festival and a retreat. That’s what we were aiming for.
Room for beige linen, if you’d like to wear it. I’m kind of happy no one does. A little Nag Champa here, a silly joke there. A lot of hugs, but they’re real. And a lot of talent.
There’s room to wear whatever the fuck you want. Walk around the corner, have a smoke. Have a Turkish rakı. Go rave. Talk about life. Come back and meditate, or just swim in the ocean.
And possibly don’t even post about it.
The performative spirituality. The performative “I was at this rave and saw this DJ.” There’s a lot of that around. Here, I don’t feel the need. It feels intimate. It feels great.
We share a love for music. For dancing to a rhythm out here in nature. For making something together, then finding a place to rest in between. You meet another human who comes from somewhere else and sees things differently. And you both love that little sound that comes after the other one. You know the one.
Chewing on your bio-broccoli, already knowing that maybe, just maybe, at two in the morning you’ll end up at the Bonjuk Burger Bar, having what I’m prepared to call the best burger on this planet. With whiskey butter.
And it’s all part of the same plan.
Yes, and.
In improv, we practise “yes, and.” Take what someone brings and build on it. You don’t have to arrive with the whole scene worked out. You have to notice what’s already happening and offer something back.
A little bit like life. I know how much energy I can lose fighting what’s already there. Fighting reality as a starting point for making something? Lost cause. Good luck.
Whatever it is, first take what’s there and build on it. That’s where the momentum comes from. It doesn’t mean agreeing with everything. You still have your own taste, your own limits.
I fell in love with improv theatre, and with how much of it I could use elsewhere. Film, writing, music. So it’s great to have workshops here where you get to try it with people from completely different fields, and just see what happens.
Sometimes you bring the skill you’ve spent years developing. Sometimes you bring the willingness to look a bit silly while you learn.
Without a script
A character takes shape
An invitation to play
Yes, and…
A little more alien.
For me, Bonjuk was also a chance to bring The Most Realistic Alien back to life. A project from my work with CRE8 Foundation, built around a simple invitation: draw an alien. Make it realistic.
Which is already a pretty good problem.
I’d wanted to return to this work. Here was a chance to do it with some of my favourite professional weirdos. Paper, pens, people willing to play. A relaunch that we could make together.
Think back to that wobbly alien behind the decks. The care and precision didn’t make the idea less silly. They made the silliness better. I love that combination: taking the making seriously without needing the result to be serious.
Then there was becoming a little more alien ourselves. Decorations, headpieces, handmade glasses. Something to carry out of the workshop and into the night.
The dance floor
Somehow, all of this lies there in the potential. Us little humans on this rock floating through outer space.
I look at the dance floor, at the smiles, at the scene. Like a movie life has somehow scripted itself. So many little ingredients and micro-moments coming together with this music. Rare Pokémon humans yes-anding each other.
Peak human experience, I would say.
That’s just how I see it, of course. And from where I’m standing, it’s pretty great.
How did I end up here?
Probably some result of the forty-three years I’ve been on this planet. The people I’ve met. The situations I’ve found myself in. And somehow, as a result, these ultra-gifted humans have gathered in this place.
I’m listening to songs I adore, made by the person standing behind the decks.
There’s an ocean reminding me that infinity is just another perspective.
And a carpet under my feet that I stumble over, reminding me that it’s okay to make mistakes.
A little perspective. A little stumble.
Moments like this make me feel that it’s pretty cool to be alive. To have the privilege of doing this life thingy we all seem to have signed up for.
Little did I know this life thingy would include me trying to work out the mechanics of a guy dancing with a disco ball held in front of him. Water seemed to be dripping off it. For a second, it looked like he was peeing. Looked like. Not what was happening.
I’m pretty comfortable with weird, but now I had a technical question. How does this even work?
Absurdity on top of absurdity. Straight into my lifetime highlight reel.
And the music.
I’ve been to a lot of festivals and a lot of raves. The music here was the highest quality, all the fucking time. And the people making it? Down-to-earth, humble creators, co-creating together. Very special. Thank you so much. I’m excited for what’s to come.
The sets were recorded. We’re still waiting for the recordings to arrive, and we’ll share them here when they’re ready.
The artists who brought their worlds to this week:
Photographs · Defne Mendi and Ole Ukena. Words, drawings & animations · Ole Ukena.
What comes next.
Some of my work is already at UKENA, including pieces I’ve made for I AM YOU. More is coming soon. Wearable art and other pieces that grow out of the moments we share when we gather. Something happens between us, and it becomes an actual work.
Leave a little of the week.
What is one moment from Bonjuk you want to keep? A sound, a person, something wonderfully unexpected. Leave that memory here, with a photo if you like, or tell us what this story brought back for you.
Notes go to I AM YOU for review and do not appear automatically. Your email stays private.
The painted collection
Stay with the pictures.
41 works, with room to look.
Who would you bring?
Know another rare Pokémon who knows how to wobble?
Send them this story. Maybe next year, we’re there together.