An interview with DESCRIBE THE NIGHT playwright Rajiv Joseph

Describe the Night plays at the wilma THEATER FROM Jan 28-Feb. 16, 2020.

Playwright Rajiv Joseph

WILMA DRAMATURG WALTER BILDERBACK: Why do you think audiences should come to see Describe the Night? What do you hope audiences will take away from seeing it? What questions do you hope they ask themselves?

PLAYWRIGHT RAJIV JOSEPH: My main goal with any play is to entertain and to weave a dream-like story.  I want and hope audiences lose themselves in the tales of this play.  It’s not a history lesson, nor is it a political dissertation of any kind.  It’s a fairy tale, a collection of myths.  I do hope it’s thought provoking, and that people can talk about it, discuss it, and find aspects of the story that speak to them long after the curtain has gone down.

It’s a fairy tale, a collection of myths.
Playwright Rajiv Joseph

WALTER: What prompted you to write this play?

RAVIJ: About 15 years ago I bought a copy of Isaac Babel’s 1920 Diary, which survives in fragments, with large portions of it destroyed.  I was drawn to this work, and how one could see a creative mind beginning to flourish.  I wondered if there might be a play about Babel’s artistic process, and his experiences with the Red Cavalry in Poland.  But I didn’t pursue writing the play; it was on a backlist of ideas. 

In 2010 when an aircraft carrying a large swath of the Polish government crashed in Smolensk, Russia, I wondered if there was a way of connecting that event to the Polish-Russo War and Isaac Babel, but that seemed even more unwieldy for a play.  But when I was given the opportunity, through the NYU Graduate Acting Class, to develop a new work with the students there, I figured this might be the idea.  Through the research efforts of the students, and our collaborative process, I found the third story that fit in the middle:  That of a young, confused KGB agent in Dresden in the 1980’s, who could be Vladimir Putin. The three stories work as sort of gears, each pushing the others to make the play move.

Russian Writer and Journalist Isaac Babel

WALTER: The central characters of the play are all based on historical figures, but you’ve played around with the facts about their lives: how does this relate to the theme of truth and fiction in the play?

RAVIJ: All three story lines of Describe the Night address this question of what is true and what is not true, and the varying degrees of truth.

Seeing how Babel’s work bended reality towards his fiction was the first step for me in constructing the play like this, but that connected to the Smolensk crash and how, in all liklihood, the public will never know the actual truth of that crash.  (Some people think it was simply a tragic accident, others believe the crash was premeditated act of war… whether it is one or the other, the Russian government has done nothing to allay fears of conspiracy.  The remains of the plane remain in a bunker in Russia.  It is almost as if there is a desire, on the part of the Russian government, to foment confusion, suspicion and fear.)

Finally, in researching the way the Soviet government and the NKVD dealt with information, news, censorship, and the suppression of artistic voices, the very idea of “Truth” when it comes to Soviet history seems fragile at best. 

WALTER: The journalist Peter Pomerantsev, in his new book This is Not Propaganda writes of a “war against reality,” asking “what are the consequences in a world where the powerful are no longer afraid of facts?” Do you see a lineage from the ’30s to a “post-truth” world, or is this something new?

RAJIV: It’s not just a lineage from 1930’s Russia, I think history itself has always been suspect.  In every story, in every news report, in every history book the majority of the relevant information is, by necessity, left out.  Like Babel’s diary, we are only given fragments of the past through which we can attempt to discern a logic.  This is simply the nature of storytelling and memory.  But darker forces throughout history (continuing to the present day) have preyed upon the fragmented nature of information in order to control people and create fear and confusion.  Or as others might say, in order to keep the peace.

WALTER: The script has continued to evolve since its first production. We’ll be performing a version that has been rewritten this fall, partially as a result of conversations with Blanka Zizka. What have you learned from previous productions that inspired these changes? What has come from conversations with Blanka?

The wreckage from the Smolensk air disaster, which killed the Polish president.

RAJIV: I met Blanka at the production of Describe the Night at Woolly Mammoth last summer.  The Woolly production was the first one to divide the play into 2 acts instead of the original 3 acts.  I was interested in how this would change the play, for better or worse.  I thought it changed it for the better, but then, in seeing it, I wanted to continue to shape the play so it fit into this structure in a more pleasing way.  Blanka agreed with me and made several useful suggestions that I followed. 

I think the Wilma version of the play is the best one to date.  It’s hard to get a story right.  Especially this one.  I’m excited that I have this opportunity—with a theatre like Wilma and a director like Blanka—to finally bring Describe the Night into what it is supposed to become.

I think the Wilma version of the play is the best one to date.
Playwright Rajiv Joseph

WALTER: I know you did a lot of research while writing the play. For the historical characters, were there any “Aha! moments” in the research that inspired you? Things you discovered that really surprised you?

RAJIV: Too many to recount here!  The truth is always crazier than fiction.  When I discovered that Babel was close friends with Nikolai Yezhov—that a writer of subversive fiction could be friends with the head of Stalin’s secret police… and then have an affair with the man’s wife… that seemed almost too crazy to be true.  Likewise, the notion that the Smolensk aircraft crashed in the Katyn Forest in April of 2010.  Exactly 70 years earlier, the Soviet army was carrying out the Katyn massacre, in the same forest, in which 22,000 Poles were executed and buried in a mass grave.  Sometimes these details seemed too unbelievable to even fit into a play.  But they also made me believe that there was a deep connective tissue between all these events that my play could attempt to tease out.

Nikolai Yezhov (right) with Soviet leader Joseph Stalin (center)

Describe the Night plays at the wilma THEATER IN PHILADELPHIA FROM Jan 28-Feb. 16, 2020. BUY TICKETS

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HOW TO KNOW WHEN A PLAY IS DONE

January 10th                                                                                               baby, it’s cold outside

Draft two.

People sometimes often ask me how I know when a play is done.

I ask Kenneth Koch. He wrote a poem about it (The Art of Poetry).

I swear by the first rule:

            ask 1) Is it astonishing?

If you can answer that, you probably don’t need all the other questions, but they are good too.

            7) Is there any unwanted awkwardness, cheap effects, asking illegitimately for attention,
Show-offiness, cuteness, pseudo-profundity, old hat checks,
Unassimilated dream fragments, or other “literary,” “kiss-me-I’m-poetical” junk?
Is my poem free of this? 8) Does it move smoothly and swiftly
From excitement to dream and then come flooding reason
With purity and soundness and joy? 9) Is this the kind of poem
I would envy in another if he could write? 10)
Would I be happy to go to Heaven with this pinned on to my
Angelic jacket as an entrance show? Oh, would I?

If you are thinking, don’t you have to sort through more analytical stuff about your play, too?
The answer is yes, but I only do a good job of it when I’m feeling like a poet.

the new york school of poets (painters welcome)

THE DAYS ARE STRANGERS

Oct 16                                                                                                     

Kinderhook Farm, NY.
“Are you here for the tour?” asks a man in overalls. “Yes, is the tour happening?” “It’s happening if you want it to happen,” he says, and walks off.                                                                                                Another woman walks up, and as it happens, she is the shepherdess. For most of the next two hours, there is no one on the tour except for my partner and me. It is blissfully useful. I learn about orphan sheep. She curls her finger into a tongue, to demonstrate the difference between how cows eat grass and how sheep chomp. I ask her bizarre questions and she recommends a movie.

Oct 17

Philadelphia, PA.
10 am – 3pm. Observing the Hothouse. Yury Urnov is leading the room. They are doing relatively straightforward text analysis on a decidedly unstraightforward play about hacktivism. I think: hell yes hacktivism, hell yes, anarchy, hell yes, Wilma. The play, for me, does a brilliant job at highlighting the aggression behind internet humor and memes. It’s a window into disaffected emotional chaos when it is directionless, and how it gathers incredible force when it takes on targets. I think about what it says about me, that I am drawn to that playfully destabilizing energy. Rage is powerful. Collective rage even more so. Collective Rage is also the title of a play by Jen Silverman. In the elevator, people talk about that play.

I also think, f**k… The Internet Is Serious Business and Dionysus Was A Very Nice Man are similarly structured titles.

New York, NY.                                                                                              6:30pm. I am at a fancy party. I found out a couple hours ago that I won an award. Now the award is being announced at the fancy party.

Oct 22

New York, NY.                                                                                              8:30am. Heavy rain. I am getting drenched at this Megabus stop.

Philadelphia, PA.                                                                                               11:30 am – 5:10pm. At an Academic Conference in a UPenn Library.           It is called Timescales: Ecological Temporalities Across Disciplines.            I wish they’d called it something more rocknroll, like                    Collective Academic Rage: Climate Change Is Beyond Real (If You’re Poor) I am there with Pig Iron, as a collaborator on their music-theater project, A Period of Animate Existence.

I find the conference comforting, especially on the heels of the presidential debates. Even though I’m looking at charts of catastrophe, I am relieved just to hear people define their terms and organize their discourse. I make a note to self, to read Dale Jamieson.

We are reminded, in concluding remarks from Paul Saint-Amour, to think of climate change as a condition, rather than a problem. Let’s take our time developing our thoughts, he urges, because this particular condition demands a deeper engagement than panic.

6 pm. Dinner with Walter. Walter has just come from leading a discussion about climate change at The Wilma. Talking with Walter is also comforting.

7:50 pm. Ten-minute nap in my audience seat.

8 pm. When The Rain Stops Falling, at the Wilma. It’s stunning. They’ve carved out a dark dreamspace. I feel the plot working on me, the slow ritual movements working on me.

Oct 23

Philadelphia, PA.
8:50 am. I realize I am collecting a lot of memories at this Megabus stop.

New York, NY.                                                                                                    11:30 am. Wildlife sighting! It’s the elegant crested tinamou. Ok I’m lying, it was an author, I spotted an author: Rebecca Solnit. My primary hobby these days is reading essays by Rebecca Solnit. She ducks into a clothing store. I follow. I observe her over a stack of sweaters. Have I correctly identified her? I’m not sure. “Excuse me, are you Rebecca?” The condition of admiration also demands a deeper engagement than panic. But I stumble over the few words I can muster. How do you casually say to someone:

“Thank you! I know you don’t know who I am, but I think you’re one of the great thinkers of our age. I am blown away by the breadth and depth and style of your work, by your redefinition of non-fiction, by your bravery, by your honesty. You have gifted me a framework for thinking about activism and optimism that keeps me going. Your words have been a significant wedge for me against despair.”

I am overwhelmed. I say something like: “I’m Kate Tarker, I’m a playwright, I love your work, thank you… for your optimism, I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

Total failure of speech. Who wrote me?

I buy two articles of clothing.

Oct 24
New York, NY.
Drinking coffee. Writing.

thedays_kt_blog_img

TOYS

September 26, 2016                                                                                Writing from an airplane                                                                        Clouds underneath me

toysblog1

Tone.
Tone tone tone tone tone.
Tone tone.

At the beginning of a script, you’re both making up the rules of the game and trying to play it. I find I have to hammer exactly the right words into place in the first ten to fifteen pages, if I want to lose myself in the process after that.

Sometimes that means I have to get really really quiet.
And listen to myself.
And listen to words.
And pull apart words.                                                                                   And listen carefully to nothing.

I’m almost there.

Found these little figurines at an antiques store just outside of Oxford, PA, during a weekend with my family.  Felt such a visual, sensual thrill while browsing that store and its tchotchkes. I’m not typically one to connect deeply with antiquing – in most antique stores I’ve felt once removed, as if performing the enjoyment of browsing. As if walking through an advertisement of someone else’s good time. In this store, though, things got personal. They had light up Hess trucks, just like the ones my grandparents used to send me for Christmas. Beer steins, from the region of Germany I grew up in, made of glass and metal and painted inscriptions; drinking apparatuses to last a lifetime. There were train sets (a little pricey – alas)… one of them a freight car from the New Haven line, where I went to grad school. I slid the small door open. Closed. Open.

I thought: I want toys. Why don’t I have more toys? I am not a grown up. I am a writer. I want things to play with. My least favorite part of being a writer is the anti-sensuousness of laptops.

So I bought little people and a house and a cow and a sheep. Those are all the characters in my play.

They also had a miniature version of the 1964 Worlds Fair fountain in Queens. I broke my toe playing in that fountain. So I bought that too.

DAILY HABITS OF FAMOUS WRITERS

September 12, 2016

dailyhabits_img Every morning Gunter Grass kick-started his daily word ablutions with rolling on the ground. Arms extended, he would propel himself violently from side to side on his Persian carpet, yelling “huppah!” Early in his career, he also found Diet Coke to be an effective lozenge for his creative juices; later he preferred cookies with milk. Grass took great pains to never be distracted by the outside world when doing the difficult and dangerous work of writing. To this end, he would keep the blinds on his window drawn. Eventually, he took this six steps further, and blinded himself.

dailyhabits_img2Susan Sontag held herself to an exacting writing routine. She would get up at 4.5 am, dance around to the Bangles in her Hello Kitty night shirt, get amped on several bowls of sugar cereal, do some acroyoga, and then sit quietly at her desk and get to it. She preferred no distractions. If a bird whistled outside, she would send her pitbull to eat it.

dailyhabits_img3Hildegaard von Bingen was a self-professed flaneuse and carouser, who did her best to take the “writing” out of writing routine. She would begin her day by checking Facebook (sometimes upwards of several times a day), 5 a.m. dialing former flames who were in new relationships, and tweeting transcriptions of actual birdsong. She tried to honor a daily word goal of 25 words. Sometimes those were just Words With Friends. Between sex, drugs, drinking, and long walks in the woods, it’s a divine mystery how she got anything written ever.

I’m considering titling my play DIONYSUS WAS A VERY NICE MAN.

THE HURDLE

August 19, 2016

Bright Brooklyn sunshine, illuminating bare arms with flower tattoos on stylishly dressed freelance writer women

I am writing this play now. I started writing scenes a couple days ago and I forgot some things about how this tends to go at first.  The writing so far (I can’t believe I’m telling you this) has the quaint but useless quality of twirling aimlessly in a field while hoping lightening will strike.

And don’t get me wrong, the lightening god sees what you’re doing. It is lying up there on a cloud, bored to the nines, waiting just waiting for some worthwhile mortal to light with bottomless curiosity about the great electric mystery. It sizes up your twirling. It thinks: meh? The lightening god is not going to summon all its power to bless the meh dancer.

You have to rise to meet it. You have to rev yourself up. You have to call yourself out on your shit when you are just half-writing at one-quarter strength.

You think writing a play is easy? No. You have to put all your attention, intelligence, and life force into it. And the only way to do that, I find, is by killing your censor.

I have the dumbest thoughts, most every day. Bla bla bla who are you to think you can do this bla bla bla other writers already exist bla bla bla you need a haircut bla bla Gunter Grass was a novelist and sculptor and illustrator and playwright and won the Nobel Prize what have you ever done?

To which I reply.

HEY, LIGHTENING GOD! HEY!
You wanna fight? Then get down here
With me                                                                                                           In the ring
I will punch you in the nutsack if you try to talk to me like that                   I will teach you how to talk to a writer                                                    There are other snails, does that mean there should be no more snails? Oh, schoolboy logic, snap
I will school you on words, Jimmy                                                          You’re nothing without me
I made you
And I can call you Jimmy                                                                             I’ve unmade bigger fish than you
I’ve unmade narwhals
And by the way Gunter Grass was in the Waffen SS when he was young  AKA an elite Nazi                                                                                          And he didn’t admit it for 60 years
SO MAYBE SOMETIMES LESS IS MORE                                       LIGHTENING GOD
BRING IT ON
IF YOU DARE

My journal often disintegrates into stuff like the above.
I find it tremendously useful and freeing. I need somewhere to be a lunatic.

I’d rather be unfettered than tentative.

Break down the self. The self is shallow, polite, and masking deep hostility and fear and inappropriate aggression and confusion and desire and longing and hope.

When you write, you go deeper in the water.

RESEARCH, PART TWO

August 5, 2016                                                                                               afternoon

 
Watching the clouds. There’s a tuft of a puffy one that is separating, like a bit of thin, still-cooking egg white. The clouds give off an air of stillness except for this.

Saw a hummingbird this morning. Fireflies last night. The air is warm. It carries the choir of living things, which includes the yells of victorious corn hole players. The stars are brighter here than most places.
I often listen to music when I write, but these sounds are better.

I wish I was writing this week – this is a great place to write, this farm I’m at with my writer’s group. But I didn’t meet my research goals last week at the O’Neill. Some of the books couldn’t get there in time. This is also a great place to read, of course, and to stare at sheep.

I got to chat with Alan, who looks after them. These sheep don’t earn their keep. No birthing, no shearing, no hay rolling, no bringing the lambs to the slaughter. They’re more like pets. Alan talks at length with very little questioning, because he loves his subject. I lean against the fence and enjoy the sound of his voice. Three of the sheep are curious and venture closer, the rest are skittish. Later, I watched YouTube videos of more sheep, faraway sheep in Northern England, very well groomed and attractive sheep on attractive hills divided by attractive stone walls. What do I need to figure out before I write like my inner life depends on it? I think, just this: What season is my setting?
Oh no. It’s raining. Big unexpected drops.

I made a little tent for my laptop and me, out of my sweater. Let’s see how long this lasts.

I for a little while had a fantasy of being a completely seasonal writer, who writes things set in spring only during spring, etc. Maybe when I’m old and become Wendell Berry. Can playwrights become Wendell Berry? The calm of a naturalist’s mind is so different from the playwright’s, which is engaged in the design of conflict bombs. Skill as a dramatist is in large part just the skill of dragging any situation from good to worst.

Farmland: such interesting space, in between humans and wilderness. It’s the pastoral vase onto which we paint our dreams of leisure and self-sufficiency. It is also where I am pondering immortality, alcoholism, home, and the eternal philosophical / psychological problem of desire.

Ok, it is really raining now. The clouds cracked open. I tried hiding under a small wooden table but no dice.

I’m not sure any of these blog posts should be about anything more than being alive.

RESEARCH

July 7, 2016
Fog

I’m in Connecticut, in residence at the O’Neill National Playwrights Conference this month. This means several things. I am enveloped in a thick fog. Every morning I wake up and can smell the ocean. And: The totality of my energy is going toward working on my plays.

How much actual writing should you be doing as a playwright? Here are two wisdoms I’ve been handed down. From Sarah Ruhl: Write a play a year. From Paula Vogel: Work on two plays at a time. Have one in an early stage and the other in a late stage, so you’re using different muscles.

I have found these to be helpful cairns in my life. I’d like to offer a third wisdom, hard won.

Q: How much research should you be doing as a playwright?

A: Only as much as you schedule.

Guilt free research comes from setting aside time for it, and then honoring the time limits you’ve set. Don’t let research deceive you. Here are its lies: “I just want to help.” “You just need to read one more book.” Research has the ability to shapeshift at will into a black hole. So decide in advance how much time you will give it. I am setting aside some time this month for Wilma Commission reading. For me this means: A full week where I dig my heels into the sand and make reading my first priority. I may read one book per week in the weeks beyond that.

I asked the Literary Office at the O’Neill to find me a heaping list of books from the local libraries. I’ll only share the titles I’m most excited about with you:

 

Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics by Mikhail Bakhtin

The Shepherd’s Life: Modern Dispatches from an Ancient Landscape by James Rebanks

The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson

Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy by Barbara Ehrenreich

Henry IV 1 and 2, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Henry V by William Shakespeare

Dry: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs

The Scapegoat by Rene Girard

Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides and Anne Carson

 

Do you now know exactly what I’m making?

I also need to schedule a visit to a sheep farm in August.

The hammock at the O’Neill.
The hammock at the O’Neill.

 

 

 

 

THIS VISIBLE MOMENT

June 14, 2016
Summer sun

If you are reading this close to when I write it, you know that forty-nine people were just killed at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Another fifty-three were injured. Everyone I know is grieving and in pain. The persons attacked were mostly young, and latinx; it was a gay nightclub and undoubtedly a hate crime. Recent news reports suggest the shooter might have been struggling to accept his own natural proclivities (he had previously attended Pulse with entirely different intentions). He was likely consumed by self-loathing and shame.

It’s been a tremendously bad week in the news. I was already struggling with the injustice of the sentencing in the Stanford rape case, and with reports of twenty years of abuse toward women at Profiles Theater in Chicago. Talking about the former brought about a panic attack.

We are porous creatures, and on the regular we have to process large scale tragedies. They enter our bloodstreams. Between the news and the internet, everything that happens anywhere can feel immediately, viscerally present. We end up wrestling with fear, confusion, shock, anxiety – especially if we identify with the victims. This part is also true for all Americans: When I kiss my person good night, it is with the knowledge that anyone could walk into a nearby public space tomorrow, with a gun, and end one of our lives. For any reason. For no reason.

When I last saw Walter, he was searching for speakers on the subject of environmental activism in the age of the anthropocene. He mentioned there’s an idea circulating, among concerned agitators, that our next phase of activism on this matter might be mourning. A mourning that does not preclude further actions, but which does acknowledge this big picture: we might have already lost.

I can’t type that last sentence without feeling anger, resentment, frustration, despair, disgust, and disappointment.

So, what to do?
Emotions are built to lead us to action.
This can lead to great, modest, or terrible behavior.

There will always be people struggling with negative emotions.
They will naturally want to take some sort of action to express those emotions.
We make it really easy for that action to be legally purchasing a military grade assault rifle.

Here’s my own personal Quick and Handy Guide to Activism:

1. Take Care Of Yourself
2. Love and Be Loved
3. Determine What You Want To Do (as always, set Smart, Actionable Goals)
4. Do That

You can’t skip steps 1 or 2.
Sending my love to every queer person everywhere.

David Hockney, We Two Boys Together Clinging. 1961
David Hockney, We Two Boys Together Clinging. 1961

IN PRAISE OF FEET

June 2, 2016
Pale sun

“Hungarian folkdance is very sexy and dangerous,” says Blanka.

I have been thinking about feet lately.

Now I am observing Csaba Horvath’s feet. He has launched right into the dance steps, without preamble. He calls it “a kind of tap dance.” It goes: One and two and three three three. Tap and tap and foot hits calf.

In short order, the company of Wilma HotHouse actors becomes a footloose Hungarian village, inhabiting the world of Blood Wedding. This is a Monday, and like most Mondays, the HotHouse has gathered to host guest artists and try out new ideas from practitioners who delve into the physical. Csaba will be working with them all week. No one really knew what he was going to do. “ We have no idea what he is going to do,” says Blanka, happily, in her introduction. It is a testament to the courage and trust in this community that everyone jumps right in, regardless.

There is downward and upward force to the movement. Strength is culled from the ground.

Someone told me Csaba Horvath used to terrorize students at A.R.T. so I was expecting a temperamental beast. In actuality, he has jetlag, a quiet sense of humor, and a gentle but focused monk-like demeanor. He is in an all gray outfit, with overly long, loose dance pants that were either mosquito bitten into frayed ends or destroyed by regular devotions of stomping.

It would be such a thrill to put a whole village onstage. To have them dance like that. If I weren’t a playwright I’d want to be a dancer. Or a journalist. Or a painter. Theater is of course, all of those professions. I watch the actors, jot down potential constellations for casting. I think about diversity and pairings. I ponder economics. I wonder if I could sneak some village dance scenes into my play. Could the Wilma afford that? Would the play ever get produced elsewhere? I have no conclusions.

Except for maybe this one: No shoes. No shoes for actors.

You know how we live in a culture where clothing and behavior is gendered, and women have been assigned high heels? I lament this. Choice here is a joke. Yes, standing on tiptoe can be fun – I have enjoyed starry nights in college, wearing heels while riding my trusty bicycle. Hard femme. Stilts are also nice, have you tried stilts? I just ask: what happens when you mistake the costume for your self?

Heels are still an expectation. Women were turned away at Cannes when they didn’t wear heels. At the cinema, a woman in heels tried to outrun a dinosaur.

Being grounded. Having both feet on the ground. If someone wanted to maim female power I can’t think of a better way than by expecting we all stand on tiptoe and balance on a stick. Perhaps we could strap dead fish to our feet. Perhaps that would be worse. But no, dead fish are cool and soft.

I’ve seen several folk dances now that make use of bare, stomping feet as a way of awakening lower body energy and strength. I surmise: Rooted feet -> stronger awareness of one’s own needs -> greater assertiveness -> less self-objectification -> listening to your body -> better female orgasms -> happier village all around.

Pfffffffft.

Stomp stomp stomp.

Cobblers, feel free to come up with new options for fancy female footwear, and I’ll scheme about how to sneak some dancing into my play.

I wish I could come down for HotHouse every week.

HotHouse Blood Wedding workshop, with Csaba Horvath, 2016.
HotHouse Blood Wedding workshop, with Csaba Horvath, 2016.