I play golf, and I play chess, and sometimes I go to the gym. On

“I play golf, and I play chess, and sometimes I go to the gym. On the airplane or between acts when I do the performance, I play Candy Crush to forget what happens around me, just to be alone, not thinking... You need to clear your brain.” — Thus spoke Ildar Abdrazakov, the world-renowned operatic bass, whose deep voice has shaken the halls of the great theatres of the world. Yet in this humble confession, he unveils a truth as ancient as it is modern: that even the grandest spirits must seek rest, that even the most disciplined minds must learn the art of stillness. For behind every triumph of artistry lies the unseen discipline of renewal — the sacred balance between creation and repose.

The origin of this quote lies in the quiet wisdom of a man who has lived within the tempest of performance. Abdrazakov, a master of opera’s most demanding roles, has faced the physical strain of constant travel, the mental focus of interpretation, and the emotional intensity of embodying characters who live and die in music. Yet he speaks not of fame or victory, but of clearing the brain — of the need to retreat from the noise of the world, to become empty again so that one may be filled once more. His words echo what the ancients knew: that the mind, like an instrument, must not be played without rest, lest it lose its harmony.

The ancients revered this balance between effort and ease. The philosopher Aristotle taught that even contemplation requires intervals of leisure, for without repose the soul grows dull and weary. The Roman general Scipio Africanus, after his great victories, would often walk alone along the shore, gazing at the sea — not to plan, but to forget. In this act of forgetting, he restored his strength. So too does Abdrazakov’s “Candy Crush” or game of golf serve not as frivolity, but as ritual — a way to dissolve the pressures of mastery and rediscover the silence from which true art is born. For only the still mind can once again receive inspiration.

His mention of solitude — “to be alone, not thinking” — carries profound meaning. In the modern age, solitude is feared, and silence mistaken for emptiness. Yet Abdrazakov reminds us that the artist, like the mystic, must sometimes withdraw from the world to reclaim his soul. His solitude is not loneliness, but recovery. The mind, burdened by expectation and noise, must sometimes wander aimlessly — through a game, through a walk, through stillness — to cleanse itself. As the ocean renews its surface by waves, so too must the human spirit allow its thoughts to rise and fall without effort.

In his words we also hear the rhythm of discipline — the recognition that even rest must be intentional. The great Japanese swordsman Miyamoto Musashi once said, “In stillness, the way is mastered.” Between battles, Musashi painted, meditated, and tended to the small rituals of life. These simple acts were not distractions but extensions of mastery. Abdrazakov’s moments of “not thinking” serve the same purpose: they preserve the clarity that allows him to return to the stage renewed, with every note alive, every gesture true. For the one who never pauses eventually forgets why he began.

And yet, Abdrazakov’s reflection is not reserved for the artist alone — it is a truth for all who live in the modern struggle. We are surrounded by noise, by urgency, by the ceaseless demand to perform. We too must learn what he teaches: to step back, to allow moments of unthinking presence, to rediscover simplicity. Whether in play, meditation, or silence, the act of renewal is not a luxury but a necessity. To work endlessly without pause is to hollow the soul; to rest wisely is to prepare for greatness.

Therefore, let this be the lesson: cultivate your stillness. Seek moments when you can be alone, not thinking, not striving — only being. Let your mind breathe. Play, walk, sit quietly, and remember that rest is not the enemy of achievement but its foundation. Like Abdrazakov, learn to balance mastery with emptiness, creation with repose. For the clearest voice, whether in music or in life, rises not from noise, but from the silence between notes — the sacred pause that gives meaning to the song of existence.