Within a black lace–slipped theatrical space—itself a historical body—a staggering quasi-human enters stage left, fronting enormous, buoyant, transparent mammary glands, groaning and slowly sloshing toward the balcony stairs before collapsing with a guttural groan in seeming exhaustion, leaking her juices and fluids.

The play is not linear. The scenes do not lead into one another; they rub against each other and smother one another into submission.

Artist, choreographer, and here, a rogue animator, Will Rawls stop-motions bodies through a catalogue of perceptions in a flood of green.

rafa esparza’s Voces ruptures into our world from the ground below, bringing with it the voices of those who still remember.