Interview with Raquel Fedato by Charlie Taylor
As the sun sets over Ferropolis, a vast open-air museum of steel cranes and rusted machinery turned festival site, the beat reverberates across metal and dust. In the DJ booth, Raquel Fedato stands surrounded by friends and artists when the emotion catches up with her.
“When The Blessed Madonna started playing, I just began crying like crazy,” Fedato tells me later. “She looked at me, extremely concerned, and I was like, ‘No, I’m just happy.’ But in all honesty, it was probably a mix of happiness, stress, and exhaustion.”
This moment happened at WHOLE Festival, the annual three-day queer music festival she co-founded and still runs.
Before WHOLE, Raquel Fedato co-organised Pornceptual, a collective that runs events and parties across Europe, Asia, and North America—and WHOLE emerged out of Pornceptual in 2017. The festival takes place a few hours outside Berlin and brings together the work of many collectives, many of them based in Berlin, like Cocktail d’Amore, Buttons, GEGEN, Herrensauna, and Lunchbox Candy—and draws thousands of dancers every year from around the world.
What we see at WHOLE is that every year the audience is more and more international. It’s really become like an international queer conference, you know?
“People are flying in from Australia, the US, South Africa, and Brazil,” she says. “It feels so special.”
I want to know more about Raquel Fedato, the person working behind the scenes to make it all happen.
How did you start WHOLE Festival?
WHOLE Festival was born from a frustration with how divided the queer nightlife scene had become.
“Back then, everyone was working against each other, which really didn’t make sense,” she says. “We wanted all the Berlin parties under one roof.”
The idea took shape in 2017, after she and her business partner, Chris Phillips, returned from a mainstream festival they just didn’t connect with.
“We thought about how there was no electronic music festival made for queer people by queer people. So we made one.”
The first edition of WHOLE Festival was small, improvised, and nearly broke them financially.
We didn’t have money, so we partnered with people who supposedly did. Turns out they didn’t, and we had to pay for it ourselves. But we survived.
Now there are five organisers, and Raquel’s role includes booking artists, handling sponsorships, artist care, supporting production, gastronomy, and safety.
The festival has grown into a global meeting point for queer club culture—and, sometimes, its tensions.
During COVID, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if people could talk to each other? So we added a forum to our festival app. That was catastrophic. It was very clear that this idea that we’re all queer and therefore all get along, that’s bullshit.
“The community is broad, full of different perspectives, and sometimes those clash,” she says. “Part of my job is figuring out how all of that can co-exist in one space.”
That tension between order and chaos runs through everything Raquel Fedato has built—and it started long before WHOLE Festival.
What was your life like before nightlife?
“I was born in Brazil, but my father is German,” Fedato tells me. “We spoke German at home, I went to a German school in São Paulo, and I’d spend summers in Germany.”
The combination sounded glamorous, but it left her searching.
People always talk about the advantages of living between two countries—two passports, the ability to speak two languages—but it really fucks with your sense of belonging. It can blur your understanding of who you are.
As a teenager, she lived for a time in a small village near Bremen, Germany.
“It was very traditional, very calm, and everyone was the same,” she says. “That wasn’t something I was used to, growing up in São Paulo. It was boring. Berlin was the only choice. I felt I needed to live in the biggest city in Germany, otherwise I’d go mental. My dad was not happy about my move. As a good German, he hates Berlin.”
At nineteen, she moved to Berlin to study economics and begin her career.
“I worked for Airbnb and then SoundCloud,” she says. “That was the plan, to stay in tech. But life here took a different route.”
What’s the biggest difference between Brazil and Germany?
When she first settled in Germany, Fedato realised just how much of Brazil she still carried with her.
“I think, in general, it’s the Brazilian optimism,” she says.
“I had this really funny situation last week: I take dance classes from time to time, and I was with a friend who wanted to buy bed sheets before class. The sheets were 180 by two metres, and he asked the cashier, ‘Do you think that’ll fit my two-by-two metre bed?’
“I was like, obviously not! But if you’d asked that in Brazil, they’d say, ‘Of course, I’m sure you’ll find a way, you’ll squeeze it a little, it’ll work out!’ In Germany, they’re just like, ‘No, it doesn’t fit.’”
“It’s not just about optimism; it’s about being flexible. Working here can be challenging sometimes because people are always so realistic. That’s good, but if you want to try new things or do something crazy, people aren’t always open to it. So I try to keep that Brazilian optimism and open-mindedness.”
That optimism, and Fedato’s need for energy and movement, found its outlet early.
“I started going out in São Paulo when I was maybe fourteen or fifteen,” she says. “There was this street, Rua Augusta, full of really underground clubs and electronic music. That was my first contact with nightlife, though I didn’t even know what it was back then.”
Her mother eventually stopped trying to keep her from going out.
“My mother realised that forbidding me from going clubbing wouldn’t work. I’d sneak out or lie about where I was going. In the end, she gave up and decided to be chill about it. She had rules, but she was supportive. She probably figured it was safer if she knew where I was than if I disappeared in someone’s car.”
Let’s talk about Pornceptual. How did that start?
Before WHOLE Festival, there was Pornceptual, the Berlin-based collective that first put Raquel Fedato on the map.
These days, it’s one of the most successful nightlife collectives and party series in Europe.
“Pornceptual isn’t just a club night,” she says. “It started as a space for art and performance that explores sexuality and identity. We do performance nights, film screenings, produce content, we have a magazine, and we have an online shop. The party gave us visibility, but it goes way beyond that.”
On the parties, Fedato clarifies something:
We don’t market it as a sex party. We call it a sex-positive space. It’s about the music, the performances, the atmosphere, people feeling comfortable with themselves and each other. The thing that holds it all together is community.
That community was born almost by accident.
“Yeah, it was completely random,” she says. “We definitely didn’t throw the first Pornceptual thinking, ‘Oh my god, we’re gonna turn this into a party series,’ or that we’d ever do it again.”
What was the first Pornceptual party like?
“I was helping my business partner, Chris, with social media. He’s a photographer, and we decided to do an art exhibition and host an afterparty.”
The year was 2012. “We had no idea what we were doing. The bar may have fit 150 people. It was tight. Our friends who weren’t DJs played, we charged five euros at the door, and we told people to get naked.”
There were bananas everywhere, whipped cream, confetti—all the things a club owner hates. But it was fun.
“Instead of banning us, the owners asked if we wanted to throw regular parties at their bigger venue,” she tells me. “That’s how Pornceptual started.”
It quickly grew beyond Berlin. “One of our first parties abroad was in Istanbul,” she says. “I convinced a club owner to bring the party there.”
“It made us realise how important it was to do Pornceptual in places that might not have the same liberal background as Berlin.”
What we do is political, and in other cities, that feels even more necessary.
As Pornceptual began travelling to new locations, she realised how much the party could shift from place to place.
“There are definitely a few things that are a must,” Raquel Fedato tells me. “We have a list of what needs to be in place for it to be a Pornceptual party, and we’re quite strict about those.”
For example, they’ll never do a party “in a city where we’re not allowed to have a dark room,” she says. “We’ve done it before, but we learned that some key elements always need to be there. Otherwise, people who’ve been to a party somewhere else come expecting a certain thing, and if it’s not there, they get frustrated.”
Still, she says, every city has its own rhythm. “It’s also about adapting to the local reality. Door policy, for example, changes completely from city to city. The vibe changes, too. So it’s about keeping the essence of Pornceptual, but letting each version breathe differently.”
What was a favourite Pornceptual event?
“Our first party in New York was wild,” she says.
The promoter picked us up from the airport and took us to a huge warehouse in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I asked how he got the venue, and he said, ‘I’m the janitor, the owner doesn’t know I throw raves here.’ It turned out to be completely illegal.
“They had off-duty cops working the event, and someone ready to run with the money in case the police showed up. It was crazy but amazing. We had this incredible view of Manhattan as the sun was rising.”
Photographer: Matt J-Scott
Another memory is tied to Kyiv. “We did parties with K41 before and after COVID. We were there two weeks before the war started. Bringing Pornceptual to such a conservative country was a concern, but it turned out to be really special. People there valued what we brought. It made me realise how important it was. In Berlin, people sometimes seem to take it for granted.”
Running a project that spans continents demanded a new set of skills and forced Raquel Fedato to think about what kind of leader she wants to be.
You run two successful nightlife projects. What makes you a good leader?
Leadership came naturally to Fedato, but not easily.
“I’ve always taken initiative. I was the annoying student who would be the class spokesperson at high school,” she says.
I used to think being a leader meant deciding things and telling people what to do. Now I think it means listening and caring.
That understanding arrived after burnout.
“By 2019, I was working fifty or sixty hours a week, and then COVID hit. Suddenly, everything stopped, and I had a major breakdown. I didn’t know who I was outside of work. I realised I’d defined myself entirely through what I did.”
The pause forced Fedato to rethink.
“When everything stopped during the pandemic, I think for the first time in my life, I actually had time,” she says. “Before that, I was always rushing from one thing to the next. My life has always been fast-paced, and it still is. But back then I’d never really stopped to ask myself if I liked the things I was doing, or if I was doing them the best possible way.”
Questions came. “I had to sit down with myself and reassess everything—my work dynamics, my direction, my future. Where do I see myself? Is this something I want to keep doing? How do I want to evolve? Do I want to start something new?”
I don’t want to be an authority. I just want to be the person who holds it all together.
“And on a personal level, it was just that, having time. I started trying different things, like cooking, reading, sports. Travelling wasn’t really an option.”
Fedato goes on: “I finally had the space to think, and that changed everything. When we started working again, my team was like, ‘Who are you?’ They had to get used to the fact that I have boundaries now. I don’t want an always-on work culture, because it’s not sustainable.”
You’re sober. Let’s talk about that.
Sobriety, for Fedato, didn’t come from crisis—it came from clarity.
“I never had issues with drugs or alcohol,” she says. “I just do everything intensely, and then I get bored—I started going out really young, and six years ago I was like, okay, I’m done with this.”
“Once I realised the level of responsibility we had at our events, I stopped drinking or taking drugs while working,” she says. “So I’ve basically worked sober for the last ten years.”
Outside of work, she still went out, but over time, her relationship with it shifted. “I’d go out with friends, take drugs here and there, drink a little bit, and then I’d have the worst hangovers.
With alcohol and drugs, I started thinking that my time on this earth is limited, and there are so many things I want to do. Why am I wasting a whole day after the club feeling like shit?
“I don’t want to spend 24 hours in a club,” she tells me. “For me, that’s a waste of time. Other people can do what they want, but for me, it was done.”
She laughs. “I never went to AA, I never had any issues. I just got bored. My priorities shifted. I got really reflective about how intoxicating myself affected every other area of my life. And one day I was just like, okay, I’m done with it. And that was it, I never drank or took drugs again.”
For someone wired like Fedato, the decision was about more than abstaining; it was about energy.
“Discipline is my comfort zone,” she tells me. “I know that sounds weird, but that’s just how I operate. It’s easier to go about my life if I set goals and rules for myself. I’m definitely addicted to dopamine, so I just find other ways to get it.”
What helps you stay balanced?
She filled the space left by alcohol and drugs with movement. “I’ve done sports my whole life—swimming, soccer, handball, volleyball, running. During the pandemic, I ran constantly; my therapist said I was literally running away from my problems.”
I started boxing, and that changed everything. It taught me to be present, because if you’re not, you’ll most likely get punched in the face.
“Boxing taught me to navigate discomfort, to control my emotions. Boxing didn’t just change my body; it changed my mind.”
Her relationship to nightlife has evolved.
“It’s my work environment now, so I don’t have the same freedom I used to,” she says. “I care about my reputation. Even when I was taking drugs, you’d never see me high in a club. I still love going out, but now I prefer places where I don’t know anyone. That’s where I feel free.”
Does Berlin still feel like home?
These days, Fedato laughs that she’s “allegedly based in Berlin.”
“This year I spent more time in Brazil than here,” she says. “And honestly, for the last three years I’ve probably spent more time travelling than actually being in Berlin. But right now, I’m in a moment where I want to split my time between Brazil and Germany. I left Brazil really young and never had an adult life there. When it comes to my identity, there are still a lot of things I need to understand.”
Each day brings its own mix of fragility and resilience. “There are moments when I think, this might break me,” she says. “But I’m a positive person. I always think, no, it’ll work out.”
People don’t realise how much work it takes to put together a club night or a festival. I didn’t, either. Maybe I wouldn’t have started one if I’d known. But I try to balance it out with boxing, sobriety, sleeping properly, and taking care of myself.
This self-care is “the base of everything,” she tells me. “I can only do all this if I take care of myself.”
After more than a decade in Berlin, Raquel Fedato’s story reads like a series of reinventions—from a tech professional to underground clubs, from chaos to discipline, from burnout to balance.
The setting changed, but the grit behind it never did, and what’s endured is her drive to keep creating.
“I’m still doing what I love,” she says. “Just differently now.”
Words and Interview: Charlie Taylor
Photos: Mara Menzel, Matt J-Scott, Szymon Stepniak, Alan Mozes
Charlie writes for Hinterhaus and lives in London. She’s endlessly curious about people—their contradictions, desires, and what slips through the cracks. Also into loud music and low lighting. She writes her own beautiful blog on Substack: Fold in the Cheese.
