She stutters and spits, wrestling with each syllable. A linguistic motor is erupting inside of her, driving continuous speech. Text and signifiers appear as a dualistic avalanche, an unnatural fit in this body.
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.
