(This time, we're at a table outside of a punk club where there's a concert going on. Danowski insisted we go, even though when we got there, he didn't have a ticket, and had conveniently forgotten his wallet. The paper covered the costs, begrudgingly, and we find ourselves smoking thin French cigars on the veranda.)
I: Would you say this production, "Monsters of the Sea," the first part, is more or less autobiographical than your other works?
CD: Much less, interestingly enough.
I: I'm a little skeptical.
CD: Look, all work is autobiographical, I mean, even a pure visual abstract has everything to do with sight, with vision, really, and the eye is the 'I' and all that. I'm not saying anything new.
I: I understand this one takes on Orpheus and Eurydice.
CD: Yes, so what?
I: It just seems like familiar territory, that's all.
CD: Hm. I suppose. We're covering all the underworld myths, and so we thought we'd start with this one, since it's the one that's easiest to get sucked into. I mean, they're in love, and she's dead, and he goes looking for her, and he loses her again, I mean. You know?
I: I'm sorry I can't hear, the music is really loud.
CD: Let's walk, this place is a rip-off anyway.
(We start walking. It's not even five minutes before he runs into someone he knows, and I spend the next half hour waiting for him to finish 'a short conversation' while I play with my phone.
I: How is this Eurydice different?
CD: Aha. Three things. First, there's a video, where we retell the story, through his eyes, so we never see him, only her. And second, there's live performance where we perform scenes from a play that converges with How I Met Your Mother.
I: Why that show?
CD: Because it's like everything else on television. There's these rich white kids in New York, and at the center of that is this story of impossible longing and loss, like Eurydice and Orpheus. This isn't new. What we're seeing on television, it's the same story again. So we're telling that. And third, there's the snake, the snake that bites her, we're focusing on that for the ritual, getting bitten and going into states of trance, and that's our way into talking to the dead, communicating with the spirits of the underworld.
I: Ok, but is there an audience for that in Phoenix?
CD: I think there is. I've seen some really interesting work lately, lots of new and interesting work, and it seems like audiences are hungry for something with spectacle, something that's intimate and immediate, and something where they can go into other metaphysical worlds and find traces of themselves.
I: That all sounds very lofty, but I do detect a bit of your personal history in there.
CD: Where?
I: Have you ever met Eurydice?
CD: More times than I can remember.
I: Aha, so is this based on that?
CD: I suppose, I suppose it has to be.
I: Is she someone specific then?
CD: Yes and no, I suppose, in the same way you and I are specific, because here we are, but we're not the same people we were last year, or even last week. Eurydice and Orpheus are always around, but they're always changing.
I: Is this Eurydice someone specific?
CD: Probably more like a conglomeration of people and events, probably.
I: She's not that woman you ran into in the parking lot?
CD: Oh, my gosh, you heard about that?
I: It's a story that I can't forget. Would you please tell it so our readers can know?
CD: No. It's too personal.
I: Did you ever see her again?
CD: I did, but I'm not sure if it was her, but it could have been, I don't know yet. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and she arched her back and did this hair thing, and it seemed like, yes, I think it's her, but then I got distracted by someone who wanted to talk about my motorcycle, and then she was gone.
I: That is, without a doubt, the saddest and most beautiful story I've ever heard.
CD: Sometimes I wonder if I'm still just a teenager at heart.
I: I'm sure you are. Otherwise, you'd be wearing shirts with collars by now.
CD: I suppose that when I start acting my age I'll stop making art.
I: So is this play really about her?
CD: The woman in the parking lot?
I: Yes.
CD: Why not? It could be about her. I'm making it with the thought that she might come to see it, and recognize herself...
I: And then she could start liking your posts on facebook, and by the time you're really old, you'll be texting each other.
CD: Hahaha, very funny, fuck off.
I: So it's about someone you don't really know.
CD: No, not at all. It's about someone I think I know. I'm making this for someone I think I know. Don't you have someone secret in mind, all the time, someone you suspect knows all of your dark thoughts and thinks they're beautiful, someone who has been to dark places and can tell you about the dark places, and wants to hear you tell your stories about your own dark places?
I: Yes.
CD: This is for them.
I: Would you say this production, "Monsters of the Sea," the first part, is more or less autobiographical than your other works?
CD: Much less, interestingly enough.
I: I'm a little skeptical.
CD: Look, all work is autobiographical, I mean, even a pure visual abstract has everything to do with sight, with vision, really, and the eye is the 'I' and all that. I'm not saying anything new.
I: I understand this one takes on Orpheus and Eurydice.
CD: Yes, so what?
I: It just seems like familiar territory, that's all.
CD: Hm. I suppose. We're covering all the underworld myths, and so we thought we'd start with this one, since it's the one that's easiest to get sucked into. I mean, they're in love, and she's dead, and he goes looking for her, and he loses her again, I mean. You know?
I: I'm sorry I can't hear, the music is really loud.
CD: Let's walk, this place is a rip-off anyway.
(We start walking. It's not even five minutes before he runs into someone he knows, and I spend the next half hour waiting for him to finish 'a short conversation' while I play with my phone.
I: How is this Eurydice different?
CD: Aha. Three things. First, there's a video, where we retell the story, through his eyes, so we never see him, only her. And second, there's live performance where we perform scenes from a play that converges with How I Met Your Mother.
I: Why that show?
CD: Because it's like everything else on television. There's these rich white kids in New York, and at the center of that is this story of impossible longing and loss, like Eurydice and Orpheus. This isn't new. What we're seeing on television, it's the same story again. So we're telling that. And third, there's the snake, the snake that bites her, we're focusing on that for the ritual, getting bitten and going into states of trance, and that's our way into talking to the dead, communicating with the spirits of the underworld.
I: Ok, but is there an audience for that in Phoenix?
CD: I think there is. I've seen some really interesting work lately, lots of new and interesting work, and it seems like audiences are hungry for something with spectacle, something that's intimate and immediate, and something where they can go into other metaphysical worlds and find traces of themselves.
I: That all sounds very lofty, but I do detect a bit of your personal history in there.
CD: Where?
I: Have you ever met Eurydice?
CD: More times than I can remember.
I: Aha, so is this based on that?
CD: I suppose, I suppose it has to be.
I: Is she someone specific then?
CD: Yes and no, I suppose, in the same way you and I are specific, because here we are, but we're not the same people we were last year, or even last week. Eurydice and Orpheus are always around, but they're always changing.
I: Is this Eurydice someone specific?
CD: Probably more like a conglomeration of people and events, probably.
I: She's not that woman you ran into in the parking lot?
CD: Oh, my gosh, you heard about that?
I: It's a story that I can't forget. Would you please tell it so our readers can know?
CD: No. It's too personal.
I: Did you ever see her again?
CD: I did, but I'm not sure if it was her, but it could have been, I don't know yet. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and she arched her back and did this hair thing, and it seemed like, yes, I think it's her, but then I got distracted by someone who wanted to talk about my motorcycle, and then she was gone.
I: That is, without a doubt, the saddest and most beautiful story I've ever heard.
CD: Sometimes I wonder if I'm still just a teenager at heart.
I: I'm sure you are. Otherwise, you'd be wearing shirts with collars by now.
CD: I suppose that when I start acting my age I'll stop making art.
I: So is this play really about her?
CD: The woman in the parking lot?
I: Yes.
CD: Why not? It could be about her. I'm making it with the thought that she might come to see it, and recognize herself...
I: And then she could start liking your posts on facebook, and by the time you're really old, you'll be texting each other.
CD: Hahaha, very funny, fuck off.
I: So it's about someone you don't really know.
CD: No, not at all. It's about someone I think I know. I'm making this for someone I think I know. Don't you have someone secret in mind, all the time, someone you suspect knows all of your dark thoughts and thinks they're beautiful, someone who has been to dark places and can tell you about the dark places, and wants to hear you tell your stories about your own dark places?
I: Yes.
CD: This is for them.
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