Rarely do we writers encounter artists like German Kabirski, whose overpowering work is crafted with a dispassionate perspective.
German Kabirski is a maverick who creates with fearless passion, guided by instinct rather than ego, letting his creations speak for themselves. A harsh self-critic, he shuns self-aggrandisement, embracing authenticity over acclaim.
Endowed with an inherent gift for disrupting established norms, Kabirski believes that creativity is an uncharted journey of surges and slumps—where art emerges from chaos and imperfections. His art is a confluence of binary perspectives, shaped by the rough-and-tumble realities of life.
More importantly, his unrestrained approach allows him the freedom to craft and ‘even destroy’ his compositions at will.
For this avant-garde artist, who embraces turmoil and disorder, designing is an infinite, continuous process. Like a cosmic egg shattering, it births bold, new ideas.
An economics graduate from the University of Dagestan, German Kabirski studied the basics of the jewellery craft independently. Recognising the potential for unconventional designs, he experimented with metal textures, casting, and stone settings, launching the German Kabirski brand in 2000. His award-winning collections feature both traditional and non-traditional materials like wood, seals, pebbles, and more.
Your work is a radical departure from traditional jewellery, rooted in raw materials and intuitive chaos. What was the turning point that convinced you to enter this industry, not to conform, but to disrupt it with your unique vision?
You think this is radical? I actually tone it down — otherwise, there’d be almost no clients left. People haven’t even seen my truly radical work.
And honestly, most wouldn’t want to. Only a handful of people ever appreciate it. I don’t even share those pieces anymore.
I make them for myself, keep them in a drawer for a while, then melt them down. I don’t get attached. I don’t love my own work.
You’ve spoken about finding beauty in conflict and imperfection, which feels deeply personal. Was there a specific experience in your life that shaped this worldview, making you reject conventional beauty standards and choose jewellery as a medium to express it?
Yes, there was, and more than once. But I’m not going to talk about it — that part’s too personal.
What I will say is this: creativity should look like an unstable cardiogram. Sharp highs and brutal drops. Constant polarity. From minus to plus and back again. Without that, you lose taste. If life doesn’t give you those extremes, an artist must create them manually.
We’d like to know your concept-to-creation process. Do you pick a raw gemstone, and build an ‘artwork’ around it, or does the metal take the lead, shaping the design from the sketch onward?
I never sketch. I work directly with wax or metal — mostly wax. The best time to create is when I’m emotionally drained or deeply upset. For some reason, that’s when the brain starts working in ways it usually doesn’t. It becomes a form of self-treatment.
Another source of inspiration is when something goes wrong — a strong defect, a technical flaw. Most people would toss it. I don’t. Mistakes are underrated. Sometimes that flaw becomes the thing that pushes the design somewhere completely unexpected. That’s where new techniques are born. That’s where it gets interesting.
Your jewellery is described as “living creatures” from the Earth’s core, befriending humans as companions and therapists…
Yes, sometimes I feel like my pieces aren’t made — they’re born. They just appear and somehow find their people. Not always, though. Sometimes they overwhelm. Not everyone wants to wear something that feels alive.
You’ve combined diamonds with pebbles and precious metals with fur and feathers. What’s the wildest material combination you’ve ever experimented with, and did it end up as a masterpiece or a gloriously weird disaster?
I’m not doing it for shock value – it’s just a constant search. A process that often looks strange from the outside. Years ago, I found this ordinary copper electrical wire in white insulation. I pulled out the copper, replaced it with gold, and cast a regular key in gold, then covered it in copper. I oxidised the copper and gave it a green patina. It looked like a rusty key hanging from an old wire. I called it the Egoist necklace.
To me, it was deeply philosophical. But no one appreciated it. I had to melt it down. I’ve made a lot of what people would call nonsense. But for me, it was always just part of the search.
Your cockroach brand symbol is such a powerful symbol of resilience! If you were to design a piece inspired by that indestructible little friend, what would it look like, and what kind of energy would it carry?
The cockroach is my angel. The more people hate it, the more I feel a kind of collective guilt on behalf of humanity.
Think about it: a chicken literally eats sh*t, and no one’s disgusted. But a cockroach — who never touches anything like that — instantly triggers revulsion. Why? What are we projecting onto it?
I’ve made pieces with cockroaches before, and I’ll keep making them. It’s a perfect creature. Misunderstood, resilient, indestructible. If I design a piece around it again, it won’t be about beauty. It’ll be about survival. About enduring when everything around you wants you gone. That’s the kind of energy it carries.
And it deserves a place in gold!
Your resilience through isolation suggests a profound inner strength. How did your struggles before and during your entry into jewellery design influence your creative psyche?
“Isolation”? What does that even mean today? We’re all connected. The internet is always there. Personally, I prefer it over face-to-face interaction.
People come with all sorts of issues—some smell weird, some burp constantly, some are just painfully annoying.
Online, you’re spared that. And you can end the conversation anytime you want. That’s freedom. And honestly, it suits me better.
Since childhood, I’ve carried two completely opposite people inside me. One is a traditionalist — a moralist, a bore, a total pain in the a**. The other is an unhinged anarchist who hates anything collective: trends, fashion, mainstream culture, all of it. They argue constantly. Sometimes they hate each other.
I live in the middle of that conflict, which, as you can imagine, is exhausting — but also the only reason I can make what I make. It’s a mental state I’d describe as perfectly healthy, just… calloused. From constant internal friction.
You draw inspiration from nature’s weird and conflicting elements, finding beauty in ugliness. What’s the most unexpectedly beautiful “ugly” thing you’ve come across lately, and how might it sneak into your next design?
I’m obsessed with textures — real ones, not artificial. Recently, in an old Bangkok neighbourhood, I came across a house with a door that stopped me cold. It had survived decades of paint layers, all peeling, cracking, and flaking off in jagged strips. In places, the bare wood pushed through — splintered and raw. Some parts revealed every layer at once, like a geological cross-section. Ants were living in between the cracks, going about their business like nothing had changed.
All I could think about was ripping the door off and taking it home. It was perfect. Ugly, decaying, alive. That kind of surface does more for me than any polished gem.
Have you ever had a moment where your subconscious led you to create something so surprising that even you were shocked by what emerged?
I’m not smart enough to think of anything “shocking,” and I’ve never wasted time dreaming of fame. The only thing I’ve ever really learned to value in myself is creative freedom.
But lately, entering the mass market, I feel like I’m losing that. And yes — that bothers me. A lot.
You design dramatic, theatrical statement pieces to celebrate boldness. If you could pick one iconic person—living or historical—to wear your most over-the-top creation, who would it be and why?
Let’s be honest. What’s the point of giving something to someone who’s already achieved everything—and has no idea you even exist? Why? So, you can show off to your friends and say, “Look who’s wearing my work”? That’s disgusting. I’m not interested.
What matters to me is giving to people who truly love what I make. That’s a two-way thrill. That’s real.
Of course, I can’t give everything away. I have to provide for myself. And keep the company alive. But that’s where the meaning is—not in chasing icons.
Who are your inspirations in the field of arts, including jewellery design?
No one. I avoid following other designers. It’s dangerous. Too easy to catch the virus of imitation — and then you’re creatively dead.
Out of all the arts, I see math as the most perfect. Then music. Everything else trails far behind. Unfortunately, I became neither a mathematician nor a musician. But I admire them, deeply — with what you could call a very pure kind of envy.
As for me, I’m just another person making nonsense. Just a slightly different kind of nonsense.