Artsy Traveler

Flamenco

Last updated on December 7th, 2024 at 02:36 am

Flamenco is included in Pastel & Pen: Travels in Europe, a non-collaborative collaboration between Gregg Simpson and me. Gregg supplies the artwork (see above), and I write the stories.

About the artwork: Gregg became captivated by flamenco during a trip to Spain in 2010 when we watched flamenco performances in Barcelona, Cordoba, and finally, Seville. He created Flamenco Sketches on the rooftop of our tiny hotel on a dark side street in the center of Seville, the massive cathedral looming nearby.

Flamenco

In a dark theater packed with tourists just like us, we sit clutching the one glass of watered-down Sangria included in the ticket price to the Los Gallos flamenco show.

I worry that the show will not be authentic enough, that we’ll be treated to a weary troupe of over-the-hill dancers too washed up to manage more than a few half-hearted stamps and turns.

I am wrong. Very wrong.

For almost two hours, three male singers, one female singer, three guitarists, three female dancers, and two male dancers grab our throats and squeeze with a relentless fury that leaves us gasping for more.

An angelic-looking young guitarist sits alone at center stage and presents a solo performance that puts the “oo” in “swoon.”

He does things with ten fingers that no human should be capable of. I can barely manage right- and left-hand independence at a slow tempo on the piano. He has ten-finger independence. Each finger plays a different pattern and a different rhythm simultaneously and at blinding speed.

The solo dancers start slow and then build intensity with the pace and intricacy of their footwork. By the time they reach the climax, my heart rate is through the roof, and I am yelling olé like a native.

The male dancer dances with no music—a drum solo with feet that punish the floor with machine-gun precision.

The third female dancer, well into her fifties, is as strong and soulful as the dirt of Seville. She exudes experience with a concerto of jerky, violent movements that leaves no doubt about who is queen of the troupe.

The singers inspire the dancers who inspire the guitarists who in turn intently watch and react to the footwork of the dancers.

At the finale, each dancer takes a turn improvising, and the audience is finally allowed to take pictures. With cameras flashing and heels hammering, hands clapping, and voices cheering, the tiny theater explodes.

Afterwards, we float into the soft evening air—as devout a pair of converts as ever walked through the doors of Seville’s gold-encrusted cathedral.