This summer, my friend Alex invited me to Ezera Skanas in Latvia – a festival that kicks off at 3:00 AM, in the middle of a remote lake. It sounded intriguing, if not a little terrifying – especially coming from someone as high-maintenance as the princess who couldn’t sleep on a single chickpea. To face my fear, I brought along my friend Jane; part moral support, part backup rower, and full-time documentarian.We drove down from Tallinn, through the winding roads of southern Latvia – the Tuscany of the Baltics, if Tuscany traded vineyards for storks and hay bales. By midnight, we arrived. Following a faint chain of lights to the lake, I realized quickly this was not the kind of festival where you turn up in sequins and sunglasses. Instead of sweaty crowds, there were headlamps. Instead of crop tops, life jackets. The only choreography was the hauling of inflatable boats to the water, the beat supplied by the wheeze of air pumps.
For the next few hours, I watched people waiting – not in the dead-eyed queue-for-the-bar sense, but with that fizzy kind of anticipation that makes you shift from foot to foot. One by one, boats slid into the dark, heading toward a stage that seemed to exist only in rumour until you were close enough to hear it.Two things I especially loved? First, Ezera Skanas reminds you what festivals are really for – experiencing the landscape, listening to music without feeling overwhelmed, simply being present without the pressure to perform. Second – forget fashion week, this was weather week. The hour, the temperature, and the fact you’re on a boat dictated the “dress code.” No need to dress to impress; just stay warm and afloat. It inspired us to document the festival’s outfits on and off the water… clothing shaped not by trends, but by necessity and place.After having some time to reflect upon my experience, I spoke with the festival’s founder, Reinis Spaile, about the history of Ezera Skanas, why it truly “takes a village” to make something like this happen, and why some of the best things in life are better left small, quiet, and stubbornly un-monetized.
First of all, can you tell me a bit about yourself – what your everyday life looks like outside of Ezera Skanas?
Professionally, I’m a film director, mostly working on short formats and commercials, often traveling internationally. Storytelling is a big passion of mine; I love how film combines so many elements: narrative, art direction, music. That’s also why Ezera Skanas feels so connected to what I do. A festival, in its own way, can be world-building too. In film, you build a set for the camera; in Ezera Skanas, you build a set for the people themselves to step into. The audience becomes the main character, experiencing the story in first person.
As I understand it, the festival started as something small with friends, and only later opened to the public.
Yes. The location is my parents’ lakeside property, where we used to have summer camps with my cousins as kids. Those camps were a time when we could really unlock our energy, learn by doing, and experiment. About 12 years ago, when we were students – four or five of us, all studying different disciplines – we kept the tradition going, but started imagining what a festival there could be like.The first few years it was a secret pop-up. By the fourth year, word had spread, and we had to think about infrastructure: tickets, entrances, toilets, lifeguards. For the last five or six years, the format has been stable, though in the past two we’ve added more on-land programming for people who want to stay and socialize after sunrise. Before, it would start and end with the performance on the lake.
When you think about the festival’s origin and how it has evolved, how do you feel about its growth? Do you miss the earlier intimacy?
I feel the intimacy has stayed because for me the core is still the summer camp – what happens before the festival. People gather for a week to create it together. We’ve opened applications so new people can join – architects, designers, artists. It’s the perfect environment to meet and work with inspiring people.When it comes to growth, I think Ezera Skanas should stay niche with limited attendance. The ‘handmade’ infrastructure can’t be scaled to thousands, and we don’t want to overtake the landscape. The surroundings are a central part of the experience, and we want people to have the chance to truly absorb them.
I can see that, because in a way you’re inviting people into your backyard, and it’s a place that’s played an important role in your childhood and later life.
Exactly. I fell in love with that landscape as a kid, and now I feel very privileged that I can work there in the summer and invite people from around the world to experience it.
The festival itself feels mystical and special. Do the grounds carry any stories?
Interestingly, last year we discovered that the nearby village’s old name was “Fest” – meaning festival – and 300 years ago gatherings were held there. In a way, we’re continuing that tradition, but in our own way.
How did the lake become the central stage of the festival?
The lake has always been the centre of the experience – almost like a blank canvas that everything else is built around. That’s one of the reasons we don’t announce the artists: to keep the focus on the place. There’s something exciting about entering the dark water and rowing toward sound, while in the background the silhouettes move and the sunrise slowly wakes up. The climax is the sunrise itself. Each journey is completely different.
The name “Ezera Skanas” translates to “Sounds of the Lake,” which makes the lake the composer of the festival, curating the programme. How are the performers chosen?
We structure the night in three stages. First, “pitch black” – an unconscious, deep-sleep state. Minimal, instrumental compositions. Then the “silhouette stage” – when the light comes in. This is more experimental, even abrupt, like active dreaming. Finally, morning: more harmonious, often psychedelic pop or folk. We’re thinking of expanding genres next year.
I like the idea of the performance as a dream state — it really resonates and describes the atmosphere. One thing that struck me was that the festival starts at 3 o’clock in the morning. It made the audience feel different from a typical festival.
It’s more like an expedition. It’s a lot of logistics and preparation. Most people are coming to an unknown territory, getting into a boat in pitch darkness… it’s disorienting. Just getting onto the lake is complicated, so we have the utmost respect for anyone who makes it to the middle. It’s not easy.Some people come alone for a meditative experience, or with kids for an adventure. There are big social boats, romantic couples, even people marking anniversaries – this year, a couple returned for their ten-year anniversary after having their second date here. And the lake lets you decide how social or distant you want to be from other boats.
What have you learned over the years?
A lot from the lake itself. Natural elements – wind, rain, water temperature – all affect the sound. One year, warm water carried the sound up into the air so people 50 meters away couldn’t hear anything. We’ve faced technical challenges with anchoring the stage, electricity – but we improve each year. The camp has grown from five or six people to a hundred this year, which has been intense but beautiful.
What’s your biggest fear when the festival starts?
The wind. If it’s even slightly too strong, it’s difficult to anchor the stage. Rain is another factor. Sunrise is always a mystery – the light, the fog, the clouds – but that’s more curiosity than fear.
Tell me about this year’s stage – I understand it changes each year.
Usually we use recycled materials like plastic, metal, and glass, but this year we set a sub-theme: to use only natural materials, as people might have done 300 years ago, referencing the village of Fest and imagining what materials they would have had. We chose the haystack as the central element, playing with temporary building-like forms that you’d have seen 30–40 years ago in the fields. The cycle of hay – growing, cutting, stacking, removing, and repeating – also resonates with the festival.
What comes from the earth, returns to the earth…
Yes, it’s an important mindset – to have as little impact as possible. We built a huge temporary haystack for the artists to inhabit. The other stages on land and installations (on both water and land) were individual projects, each with its own vision, but together forming a collage. The festival grounds are like a playground for people who want to join in and create something.
What are you tired of seeing in other festivals?
Selling big names instead of ideas. Losing the connection to place, your values, and why people gather in the first place. In commercial festivals, the infrastructure becomes standardized, often ignoring the actual conditions. People are crammed side by side in a field – and the experience suffers. We build around the landscape, highlighting certain parts of it, handcrafting the environment so each person experiences it directly.
What’s special about keeping it intimate?
As a niche festival, we have the advantage of being able to test ideas – like building a tiny city for a week. Even with 100 people, you need certain structures to coexist and create together. This can teach participants something, or spark ideas about how to live and coexist when they return to their everyday life.
One thing I notice is how much you build around the landscape, and how much it shapes the experience. That feels very different from festivals that try to maximize profit from a place rather than treat it as a collaboration with nature – with the understanding that we’re merely guests.
Absolutely. Any gathering has an impact, but we can teach low-impact camping: taking all garbage away, avoiding sunscreen in the water, picking up litter. People respected that this year. If 600–700 people leave with better habits, that’s meaningful. It’s about living in nature without harming it.
That’s a nice way of putting it. Returning to your profession – directing requires precision, planning, and control. Organizing a festival like this depends so much on uncontrollable elements. How does that change your approach?
Exactly. In film, you guide the vision closely. In Ezera Skanas, we set the concept and support each team, but no one oversteps. Creatively, my control ends where the next team’s work begins. My job is to kickstart the idea and let others add to it. Of course, when it’s midnight and a thousand people are trying to get onto the lake, there’s a lot of stress and responsibility to keep everyone safe. Nature is unpredictable – accidents happen – but creatively, I let go. That’s why I can’t compare it to any film project – it’s so hands-on and analog.
What do you hope people take away?
I like the term “temporal utopia” – creating the best we can share for a short, concentrated time. The sunrise is central: a cosmic process that makes you think about your place in the universe, and about society on a smaller scale. If people leave with an expanded sense of possibility for how we can live together – and carry that into everyday life – that’s the best outcome.
Interview by Diandra RebasePhotography by Jane TreimaEzera Skanas Graphics by Zane & Valters