From Steel Giants to Wooden Panels – The Stage Life That Shaped Me! / Chris Blog / Chris

Some people measure their lives in years. Others in places.
I measure mine in stages.

Not theatre stages—although some of them look like that.
I mean the stages that rise from the ground like steel cathedrals, ton after ton of construction, cables, trusses, rigging, lights, and logistics.
Stages where the wind is a factor, where the ground must stay dry, where a single bolt can decide everything, and where hundreds of people work side by side in one seamless movement.

That’s where I shaped my life.
That’s where I always felt at home.

The stages that carried the world

When I look back at all the projects I’ve been responsible for, I don’t remember the artists first.
I remember the constructions.
The big festivals, the harbor docks, the arenas, the parking lots that turned into living, breathing spaces where people laughed, cried, and lost themselves in sound and light.

I remember the stages where riggers climbed 20 meters up, their safety harnesses like a second skin.
I remember the sound engineers with headlamps at 5 a.m., when the night still clung to the earth.
I remember the sea of flight cases lined up in sequence, each one with a purpose, each one part of the whole.

And in the middle of all that, I was always there.
Quiet, but responsible.
Attuned to every vibration.
To the temperature of the air.
To the tone of the wind.

A stage manager who knew that everything had to work—
not for my sake,
but for everyone else.

That’s where my craft was born

Building a stage is not about construction.
It’s not even about technology.
It’s about people.
About reading them in chaos, leading them under pressure, calming them when something goes wrong, strengthening them when time is running out.

It’s about being able to say, “We go,” when everyone else hesitates.

It’s a kind of leadership you don’t learn—
you live it.
You earn it through bruises and night shifts, through storms on festival fields, and through heavy lifts in arenas long before the audience wakes up.

It becomes a rhythm in your body.
A breath.
A form of knowledge that settles deep into your reflexes.

And then one day, I’m standing in Bansko…

…in a small theatre hall lined with old wooden panels.
No steel. No motor lifts. No multi-ton roof structures.
Just a modest stage, a projector screen, a classic velvet backdrop—
and 300 digital nomads filling every seat.

And the strangest thing?
I work exactly the same way here as I did in the harbor of Gothenburg or at Europe’s largest festivals.

I walk in, read the room, read the energy, and notice the details others miss:

How the light falls on the edge of the stage.
Where the audience loses focus.
How the sound behaves against the wooden walls.
How the speaker moves.
How the flow of people works from entrance to seat.

And that’s when I realize something:
My craft is bigger than the stages I built.
My craft is me.

Because big stage or small stage—there is no difference

I’ve built places where global stars performed.
Places that created lifelong memories for hundreds of thousands of people.
Places where every detail mattered.

But today, in a small theatre hall in Bansko, I do the same thing:

I create safety.
I create structure.
I build the framework for others to stand in their light.

Because in the end, a stage—large or small—is just a platform.
What matters is what people get to experience there.

And maybe that’s why the projects keep finding me

When I came to Bansko, I thought I had left the stage life behind.
That I traded steel giants for mountains, simplicity, and a slower rhythm.
But reality became something very different:

The stages found me again.
Not as truss towers and roof systems—but as people.
People who want to create.
People who want to speak.
People who need someone who can hold everything together—
without being seen.

And that’s where I stand now.
In Bansko.
In a small hall.
At a digital nomad event where the world gathers in a mountain town in Bulgaria.

And I do exactly what I’ve always done:
I build the stage—even when the stage is already there.