“The plural of grief is us.” By the time Trace Polly speaks these words, I’ve already witnessed another woman enter the crowd with blood dripping from wounds around her navel. Now, a guitar hangs from her waist. Polly pulls a horsehair bow across its strings, alternating between moments of near silence and vocals that fill the warehouse. “Let us become the archive, the witness, the one that doeshellip;read more raquo;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;View Gallery (22 images)nbsp;