It is 113 degrees today. The weather jumped from a basin of cool and rain to humid and, simply, hot. There is respite in the tiny streets whose narrow bodies cast the shade; in the parasols that stand like canvas canopies over café terraces, under which sevillanos and sevillanas fan themselves and their dewy cheeked children with bright colored abanicos, fans, batting the air like the gust of a parrot’s wing. Sitting held by this warmth, with a coffee to extract thought, I am remembering the last weeks: saturated, contained in a heat of many different forms – tests, conversations, canals of shifting undercurrents like tides without a moon to guide them. And while this is how they appeared to me as I experienced them, I think a moon was there, guiding them along perfectly, presenting just the needed moment at just the impeccable time.
There have been hours of complete, unexpected calm within moments in which I was braced for no hope of composure – as though the great ball of building pressure around the thought of the pending moment outgrew the actual experience until it popped, leaving only a lukewarm mist in its wake. And there have been other moments that appeared like tiny doors, through which I entered unintimidated by their apparent size, only to find myself trembling on the other side. With each experience tucked into my psyche, I would re-enter each situation: to see again a certain someone, to walk again into a classroom, to try again a given movement or melody, to open again this mouth, with the expectation of revisiting the same emotions as before. And there, in each moment’s hand, again the tide would rise, warm, shift, and leave me surprised; calm when bracing for a tremor, and a great tremor when set to maintain calm.
The challenge of being comfortable with uncertainty, as Pema Chödrön names it, continues to lift its great jaw and give a striking and ugly smile. To this grin, I beam back with compassion for the value of it all, despite a lonely hour or the dolor of a stitch in the chest, because in the flight of each emotion I am lifted to another invisible plane. I continue to shed, to shed the un-serving layers in place of layering more layers to hide the messiness. At this point in my life, I am curious about the act of uncovering what is there, or maybe it is the act of leaving what is there without covering it. I want to know what happens when you uncover and discard and make room for the learning to reside and the right choices to come clear, rather than attempting to add, mend, and embellish; what happens when you step back, retrace the outline of your thinking and erase what you mistook as yours. I am learning that this is where the real work is, where the genuine movements are, where the livelihood of life is, where love is too, and where art breathes.
I was reminded of the importance of shedding after an intense three days of exams at El Centro. At the end of each trimester we have exams, during which we dance and sing, in most cases alone, in front of the principle teachers of the school (Miguel and Esperanza) and of the subject being examined. It is nerve-wracking. It is difficult to perform at your best in such a lit, exposed, dry situation. For me, it is more difficult to perform under the critiquing eyes of master artists than for an audience of enthusiasts. You get away with nothing, they see everything, and through this you gain wisdom and good criticism despite the anxiety of the process. Nevertheless, I do not like exams. I resist them and snarl at them and always feel glad to have them pass. And yet, each time they come and go, a void is filled with new blocks to build with. I have a lot, a lot, to learn, including the breaking of certain habits stored in my muscle memory, like that of over-bending my knees when I do footwork. However, one piece of criticism came back to me that had been said before. After my cante exam, Miguel told me that if I can learn to sacar la voz, or let my voice out in singing, this will train me to do the same in my dance. He said that I dance very correctly, but still with a vergüenza that I must let go of. Vergüenza is shame or embarrassment and it keeps my force in and me looking out, rather than allowing my dancing to extend from within in order to release my force outwards. He reiterated, as he has before, that there is a shyness to my dancing. And this is true. It has been especially present here in this new place, in front of expert eyes, and in a new community. I have been timid here, less so now than before, but still a certain timidity resides. And every time it is lifted from its damp little well where it clings to mortar and stones, I have to once again tug the cord, to lift the bucket, to tip it over and dry it out. I think it’s the only way, to keep bringing it up and shaking it out. Endless and vital, and endless.
It is frustrating to feel a surge of energy inside you, knowing that you have the physical capability to respond to it, but not yet the mental know-how to integrate your energy to its fullest expression within the art form or the mental trust to let it run if you have the know-how. When I danced my own choreographies within their free genre, I felt free to do this, because they were mine and I was comfortable. The tradition of flamenco is an entire culture and art, place and people, and pages upon pages deep. Its maze inspires and simultaneously intimidates my bravery and my force. Miguel’s commentary showed me that I am letting this natural intimidation corner my courage, which has me angry to a point of motivation – to learn to sacar mi voz, and in turn my dance, while still lost in the labyrinth.
To sink this desire deep, one recent evening I saw José “El Oruco” dance at La Peña Torres Macarena. This young dancer, of the Farruco flamenco dynasty, was a monster in the most stunning and powerful way – a gorgeous beast. Every square of his face, mouth, and body danced with an infectious attitude, strength and, notable above his technique and speed, he danced with total certainty. There was not a second of wavering or questioning. He owned his dance. Watching him was like being swept again and again into the breaks of waves. His performance created a moving fresco that vergüenza could not inhabit, a visual representation of the possibility of its absence.
To shed and shed the layers, in this heat as it presses, this endless and vital, and endless act.
