Tigo was much younger in person. All the photos on his official website showed a man with haunted eyes and gray at his temples. In his performances he moved like there was a weight on his soul, forcing everything he had no words for into the show. But now, in the hotel restaurant we'd agreed on for the dinner interview, all of that seemed to melt away. He lounged in his seat, looking every bit like the mid-thirties man he was.

I was just glad he was here at all. For a seasoned performance artist, Tigo was notoriously reclusive. He bared his soul to the world in his work, but outside of it he was famously cynical and abrasive, thumbing his nose at the establishment in whatever form it took. I didn't trust my magazine's indie darling status to exempt me from that label.

Our drinks arrived, and I decided to start with some simple pleasantries. "You landed in Mondeclay a week ago. How are you finding the city so far?"

He sighed. "Finally, something open-ended. Do you know how many people said 'good morning' to me today?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Six, and all before I'd even finished my breakfast."

"If you have any complaints about the service here, you should take them up with the management," I said.

He sipped from his glass. "It's not about the service. It's about the scripts people refuse to admit that they read from."

"Is that all you want to cover in this interview?" I asked. "Nothing about your process, your hobbies, your latest installation at the Blackstone Gallery?"

I'd seen the previews, of course. His publicist had put together a press kit. The video gave away just enough to look mysterious: a shot of an unmade bed, a brief close-up of Tigo's face as a lone tear rolled down his cheek.

I'd been looking forward to the full piece. But now I was rapidly losing interest in anything he had to say.

He snorted, already getting up to leave. "Do I want to reduce myself to a grayscale outline, flatten out the work I bled and wept for, just to appeal to an empty-hearted public? No."

For a moment I was too indignant for words. He'd agreed to the interview. He'd suggested this place. And now he was going to walk away and make this a waste of my time.

I had to salvage something from this mess. I readied my camera.

"Don't you want to see what performance you can make out of this?" I called to him.

He turned at the sound of my camera snapping, just in time for me to capture the expression on his face: curious, unguarded.