About

This musical did not begin with a song.
It began with silence. A long, stubborn silence inside me—where thoughts pounded, unheard. Where music did not live in a microphone, but in the chest. Where images arrived before words.

I wrote this story not as an artist, not as a historian, not as a producer. I wrote it as a person who had to be all of these at once. And who grew tired of the world judging each role separately, without seeing how they merge into one whole.

This project is not a manifesto and not a confession.
It is a dialogue. Sometimes an argument. Sometimes a painful silence.
But always—a real conversation.

Why I Decided to Make “Cleopatra” an Animated 3D Musical

The idea came from a simple realization: no one in their right mind would dare to stage this musical. Its scale and epicness make a live production on Broadway or the West End almost impossible — too expensive, too complex, too risky.

The original musical was completed in 2008, and since then, it had been waiting—until I decided not to rely on anyone else. Then I thought: why not do it myself, in 3D? Without the limitations of physical sets, financial constraints, or compromises in visual and musical grandeur. That’s how this crazy idea was born — a musical that could come to life as an animated 3D film.

Today, that idea is slowly becoming reality: every frame, every melody, every character is being crafted with maximum freedom and attention to detail. “Cleopatra” has become a project where a dream of the impossible is turning into the possible.

Seven Voices — One Truth

I know who I am speaking to.
I feel whose pain I cannot ignore.
Each of these seven voices lives in me.
I sang when no one was listening.
Produced what I myself would not have staged.
Defended ideas no one understood.
And carried irony like armor—just to stay sane.

But inside, one simple truth remained:
Art is alive.
A human being is not an algorithm.
And if we bring together the truth of each voice—maybe something real will begin to sound.

These pages are not instructions. They are an invitation.
Whoever you are—you are not alone.
Read. Argue. Object. Listen.
Maybe you, too, will hear yourself in these voices.

The project is greater than a name. If it resonates with you—we will meet for real.

My message to:

I have spent many years studying history, language, and meaning. I have built concepts where music and culture are connected not only to emotion, but also to thought. I have seen archives gather dust, and discoveries ignored if they do not generate profit. And I know the pain of realizing that precision means nothing—until it can be turned into a show.

Your burden is being the voice of reason in a world where speed outweighs depth, where copy-paste replaces analysis. You are not heard until someone turns your work into a meme or a sensation.

But here is what I do: I take your truth and transform it into the breath of the stage. Not for sensation, but for respect. I do not simplify—I bring to life. You lay the foundation. I give it a voice. And if this musical makes someone search the name Ptolemy, or wonder what Caesar’s death truly meant—then we have done it together.

I understand that every image we revive carries responsibility. Cleopatra is not just a name in a textbook—it is a crossroads of meanings, myths, texts, and ideologies.
I do not claim academic precision in every note, but my inspiration comes from you: from articles, debates, archaeological reports. You shed light on what time has erased. My task is not to prove, but to feel and to transmit: what if, for a moment, we could hear a voice from that era again?
In this work there are no enemies—only a field for rethinking. Let imagination argue with your argumentation, not to win, but to go deeper. You help the world remember. I help it feel.

I am one of you. I know how fingers ache after six, eight, twelve hours of practice. How your voice cracks after take twenty-seven. How you walk into an audition with hope and fear, knowing you might be invisible again.

I’ve been in the studio where they say, “sing like that guy”—when all you want is to be yourself. I’ve sung songs I hated, but sang them honestly. I’ve felt the sting of rejection, the frustration of waiting, the exhaustion of endless rehearsals where no one seems to notice your effort.

Your pain is invisibility. It is the endless auditions, the doors that close before you even get a chance to shine. It is the way creativity is turned into a lottery, where talent alone is never enough. You can be full of ideas, skill, heart—but what they want isn’t you—it’s the right “format,” the safe bet, the predictable voice.

This project is different. Here, every sound comes not from have to, but from can. Here, the voice matters more than the effect. Every note, every rhythm, every nuance is a choice, a living expression. You are allowed to breathe, to improvise, to explore your limits.

If you want to sing in a way that reaches not just ears, but hearts—this is your home. Here, the audience listens with empathy, not with expectation. Here, mistakes are not failures but bridges to authenticity. Here, your struggles are recognized, your perseverance honored.

I believe real music begins the moment an artist is allowed to be alive. Not just to perform, but to exist within their sound. To feel the connection between themselves, the story, and the people hearing it. This is the place where talent is nurtured, where effort is sacred, and where the courage to be oneself is the most powerful instrument of all.

I’ve been on your side too. I’ve produced things that felt meaningless. Written jingles, ad tracks, songs from briefs given by people who felt nothing. But I never phoned it in. Even when the project was soulless, I searched for a point of truth inside it.

I know your pain—living between dream and accountability. Loving art, but fearing failure. Wanting the real, but being forced to create “what sells.”

In Cleopatra, there are no formulas. There is a challenge. Everything is built as one great emotional arc—not by shape, but by meaning. This isn’t an experiment—it’s a return to the living stage, where Act II breaks you, and the finale puts you back together.

If you have ever longed for a project that would be more than a product, but an event—then we have found each other.

I created a project where I placed everything I feared and everything I wanted to say. This is not just the story of Cleopatra—it is a story of power, choice, love, and transformation, told in a language where music, drama, and visual epic merge.
It is ambitious. But that’s the point. The market longs for new breath, yet fears depth. But depth is what makes a project alive.
You are not just witnessing a musical—you are witnessing a dialogue with history, with myth, with our present time.
You will not see a parody of Broadway—you will see a new Broadway. One where the audience is unpredictable and never indifferent. Where emotion matters more than genre.

I have lived at the crossroads of art and business. I have seen how business without art becomes empty, and how art without support disappears. I’ve watched investors put money into hype instead of depth—and lose everything.

Your pain is the exhaustion of chaos, of unpredictability, of “just throw money and hope.” And more than that—you’ve lost faith in art, because too often it was a beautiful wrapper with nothing inside.

But art is not a luxury. It is the foundation. Art creates culture. Culture creates demand. Demand creates markets. And markets—those are your numbers.

This project is not built on hype, but on foundation. A franchise. Depth. Virality not for TikTok, but for memory. Investment here is not a donation. It is the planting of a tree. It will bear fruit. Not instantly. But for the long term.

This is not just a musical. It is a franchise with potential: a musical album, a feature-length animated film, a stage production, digital collectibles, and cultural-educational programs.
We are not building a product—we are building a world. And in this world Cleopatra is not just a figure, but an archetype: a leader, a woman, a philosopher, a destroyer.
The audience is global. From TikTok to festivals and stadiums. From educational platforms to collectible figures.
This is a project where ambition is backed by strategy. Where art is not detached from calculation, and inspiration works hand in hand with virality, PR, and technology.

I know you. I’ve been there myself. Irony is a shield. Sarcasm is a shelter from pain. You see the lies, the fakeness, the endless repetition—and you want to scream. But it’s easier to sting. Because wonder hurts. Because you remember when you believed in it. And when you lost it.

You’re not the enemy. You just don’t want to be fooled again.

This musical is not about perfect people. No one here is a saint. It’s not pomp and noise. It’s an attempt to remember what authenticity sounds like—even with its flaws.

And if one day you listen—and say nothing, just fall silent and think “damn…”—then we’ve already connected. And maybe you’ll believe again. Because beneath all your defenses, I hear this: you want to feel. You just don’t want to get hurt.

I know how easy it is to mock anyone who dares to be serious in an age of irony. Especially when someone dares to speak of historical figures as if they were alive.
But I don’t mind if you laugh. Because you’re reading this. You’re already here.

Maybe part of you is tired of banality, and part of you is tired of insincerity. If you choose to listen, you’ll hear it: behind the pathos, there is a heart.

And if one day you find yourself saying, “Well, okay… that wasn’t bad,”—I’ll be there. This project is for those who doubt. Because doubt is the first step toward searching.