This post is dedicated to my late grandmother, Mercedes. Together, she and I used to celebrate our Saint's Day, "el día de Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes", on September 24, which is coming up shortly.


Oh, the Guajira. This rhythm has been haunting me for a few years.  Mostly figuratively, but even literally. The other day while trying to choreograph a Guajira, I would pause the CD to take a break, and it would start playing by itself.  I then stopped the CD entirely, and when I walked away, I once again started to hear those opening guitar chords, playing on their own.  It was as if the pesky palo* was saying, "You're finally working with me and now you want to stop?  No way.  You're mine now".

I actually had a relationship with the Guajira long ago. It was the first full "solo" number I ever learned.  I put it in quotes because I performed this number with about 40 other classmates in my Intro to Flamenco class at UCLA.  It was exciting at the time.  I got to have fun working with the fan, a traditional element of the Guajira, and I relished the fact that the lyrics were about some dude's desire to marry a beautiful Cuban girl from the countryside, a "guajira" (the rhythm itself is named after a Cuban rhythm by the same name). Being a Cuban girl, it was fun to pretend the verses were about me.

As a member of different dance companies, I have performed some version of the Guajira several times, with both a fan and a shawl.  In Spain I had a teacher who dared to teach us a Guajira without the fan! "Why does the Guajira have to have a fan?," she asked, when a student questioned her methods.  I liked her sense of rebellion, but I do prefer the fan for the Guajira.  It's what gives it a bit of Cuban flare.  It's the same reason I don't like Guajira lyrics that don't have to do with Cuba.  I feel like, "what's the point in that?" To me what makes the Guajira special is its "Cubanness".  Without that, I'd rather be dancing something else.

You see, over the years as I got more serious about Flamenco, I decided to focus on what are considered the more serious palos and I forgot about the poor Guajira.  I started to see the Guajira as a gimmicky dance, used to give audiences the treat of some pretty props that we twirl around, but not something I considered to have any real substance.  It's not just because it's a happy dance either.  The Alegría de Cadiz is actually named after "happiness", but it is a robust dance, with lots of mood and rhythmic shifts built into it.  There's a structure with a lot of meat to it.  To me the Guajira just doesn't necessarily have that same depth.  It's pretty with pretty lyrics and a sense of romance and flirtation. That's nice, but can you give a girl some angst?

These are just my excuses though.  The reason I haven't done a Guajira solo in years is that people expect me to do so:  "But you're Cuban!  You of all people should have a Guajira".  And that is why I don't.  I know, it seems petty.  Yes, partly it is.  I have a rebellious streak and don't like to be told what to do. However, there's also a fearful perfectionism playing its hand here.  I feel like if I'm Cuban, my Guajira better be the most Cuban Guajira ever and I want it to feel that way, right out the gate.

Here is where we learn the lesson about perfectionism--it gets you stuck.  You don't let yourself create anything when you get hung up on wanting it perfect.  It will never be perfect.  I've been dancing Solea por Bulería for years now and people tell me they love my solo, but I know it's never perfect.  I will always want it to be more.  However, I also know that it is way better than it was when I first started putting it together back in Spain seven years ago.  In fact, it barely looks the same.  We have developed and melded together, fermenting like a fine wine.

So this is what I need to remind myself as I rekindle my love affair with my forgotten Guajira.  We may start off with a bumpy beginning, but eventually we should smooth out and glide together.  Or saunter.  The word "saunter" keeps entering my head when I think about walking across the floor, slowly waving my fan, proudly embodying my ancestors onstage.  

For now, I'll leave you with a sample.  This is a video of Belén Maya dancing to Mayte Martín's cante. The choreography has some modern elements that you don't often see in a traditional Guajira, but I love this video because Belén captures the coquettish and sauntering feel that I think this palo should have.  Also, I absolutely love the way Mayte sings Guajira.  They are beautifully accompanied by Juan Ramón Caro on guitar.  Enjoy!

* a particular rhythm or musical form in Flamenco

Did you like this post?  Feel free to Like it and Share it  and stay tuned for Part 2 where I will go over a bit of the history of the Guajira with more video samples.

What do you think of the Guajira?  Are there other Flamenco palos you prefer?  Do you also struggle with perfectionism?  Feel free to share your thoughts below.

Back in August, I wrote an entry called, Our Life's Dance, where I talked about following our life's calling or passion.  I was inspired by this quote by Gabrielle Bernstein: "Don't dance around the perimeter of you want to be; dive in fully."  As promised in that original entry, I want to talk about how this quote is not only a dance metaphor for life, but it can be applied to dance as well. 

Over the years I have learned that it is not enough to memorize steps, have perfect formations, and make sure all your angles are correct.  Although it is of utmost importance to spend years honing your skills and making sure your technique is clean and strong, all the impeccable technique is still not enough if you do not deliver yourself in your performance.  To me, delivering yourself means that you should reach down deep inside, pull out your most raw sorrow, anger, joy, love, gratitude, fear, elation, EMOTION, and channel it.  You must embody that emotion and let the emotion guide you in your dance.  You must engage with it, letting the feeling become a partner.

In Flamenco dance, this is especially important.  Most of the time we are soloists, doing 10 to 15-minute long numbers that tell a story, complete with a trajectory, a climax, and a resolution.  Imagine how lackluster a solo of this length would be, if the dancer danced the entire number only in their head, completely focused only on technical execution and not on any sense of connection.  There should be a decision to connect--with the audience, with the musicians, with our fellow dancers, and with our deepest self.  Once you're onstage, you have to give yourself over to that connection and answer a question:  who are you?  This is point of it all.  This is what the audience wants to know. 

When you let yourself go and "dive fully" into the dance, this question starts to get answered, both for the audience and for yourself.  There is a complete catharsis that comes when you've abandoned your ego, the mind full of planning and "shoulds and you let your true self speak through the dance.  You know when the catharsis has happened.  You know when you're both exhilarated and exhausted at the same time.  There is a deep joy, a sense of knowing.  You often get that catharsis mirrored to you by audience members, through tears, through them relaying to you what they thought your story was.  It may not be what you thought to express before you got started, but once you hear it, you think, "yes".  There is a universal truth that was delivered.

This complete surrender when you dance, is what makes people fall in love with the art form.  I believe this is true for any art form as well as in life.  People are drawn to the universal truths they see reflected in each other.  After the years of necessary study and rehearsal, when it's time to perform, please do the world and your art a favor and just let us see the real you.  You should be center-stage, not on the perimeter, dancing around the ego's idea of what it "should" look like.

Below is one of my favorite videos of  Juana Amaya, "diving in fully".  Enjoy and feel free to let me know what you think.

Back in 1995, I picked a dance class out of the UCLA schedule simply because it was the only class that fit my schedule.  The class was Introduction to Flamenco, taught by Liliana De Leon-Torsiello. 

As soon as I stepped into the class, I was hooked.  Liliana was funny, charismatic, and exuded a confidence I wanted to emulate.  I still have this image of her standing straight, shoulders back, long curly auburn hair flowing while she told us all about the ancient history of this dance form we were about to learn.  There was such a mystique around it all, especially to my young 19-year-old mind.

Sometime during that first quarter, she introduced us to Carlos Saura's short film, Sevillanas.  Sevillanas is a folk dance from Sevilla.  As teachers often explain, it is not necessarily Flamenco, but every Flamenco must know it because we perform it in most traditional shows.

Well, we were watching the film because of course, we were about to learn the Sevillanas.  I loved every moment of it.  Like I said, I was already hooked.  However, I didn't know what was about to hit me.

The singer in the video is José Monje Cruz, better known as Camarón de la Isla.  Now, Sevillanas, because they are a folk dance you learn as a beginner, are often taken for granted by those of us who have been doing them for a really long time.  In terms of cante, or singing, they are not necessarily the thing you gravitate toward when you're looking for real, deep Flamenco. 

However, here, Camarón reminds us not to take anything for granted.  I was immediately wrapped up in him, wanting to know who this pained man was and what was the cause of his pain.  Little did I know at the time (I didn't yet know his name nor realized that he was a Flamenco legend) that he filmed this shortly before he died of cancer.  In fact, he died the same year the film was released.  This also meant, he was already dead when I first laid eyes and ears on him.

The dancer, Manuela Carrasco, another Flamenco legend, also captivated me with the fierceness of her gaze and movement.  Her Sevillanas didn't look like anybody else's Sevillanas in that film.  Not only did she change them up and make them her own, she was expressing his pain.

This scene, which I played over and over once I had my own copy of the film, is what finally did it.  From that moment on, Flamenco was my life. 

Sometimes I want to slap myself when I take Sevillanas for granted.

There are highlights to all of this in my more recent years.  During my time in Madrid, I got to see Tomatito, the lead guitarist in this video, play live.  It was gorgeous and he was gorgeous.  A little over a year after I returned to the States, I got to tell Manuela in person about how this scene made me choose to be a Flamenca.  That was 2010.

Some progress, eh?  From seeing her on video to taking her master class was a span of 15 years.  It took incredible patience, but it was totally worth it.

Hope the video calls to you to.

Love,

Mercedes

The title of this entry loosely translates to "There comes a WOMAN!".  This is a jaleo, or motivating "shout-out" (like the now played out, "you go, girl") heard at the beginning of the first You Tube video below, featuring Pastora Galván.  I love it for many reasons.  One because it is declared by a man, two because of what I believe he means when he says it, and three because that meaning is so at the root of what I love about Flamenco.  When the video opens, you only see men onstage: the guitarists, the percussionist, the singers, all dressed in black.  Before you even catch a glimpse of her, you know the audience at Casa Patas, where the performance is happening, has already made note of Pastora's arrival.  There is some clapping and then..."¡Ahi viene una MUJÉR!".  Immediately following this declaration, the lower-left frame of the picture is engulfed by a flutter of pink ruffles, which you would think is very "girly", but then you see Pastora's full figure come in--curvy and in command, with a look of fierceness and control on her face.  She marches in slowly, and a compás, in rhythm, obviously knowing that she is taking full command of the stage.  There's no need to flit about; she holds her space and absorbs the cante, or singing. Her presence fuels the singers in return and you see them, El Bocaillo in particular (singer on the left next to the percussionist), reach deep into his gut for his letra, or verse.  This is not about being pretty.  Although Pastora is obviously gorgeous, she reflects his gut emotion and his guttural singing in her face and in her movement.  Even when they reach the end of the number, when everyone seems exalted of tension and there's a smile on her face, she still is dancing with all that womanly fierceness and all those curves.  That is what I most love about Flamenco.  It does not apologize and it does not constrain.  Even within all the rules of timing and structure, there is room for all of your emotion to come through and all of YOU to come through.  In fact, it is what is expected.  Pastora is only in her 20s too.  I am looking forward to seeing how her baile, or dance, ferments with life experience.  One of my teachers said, "Flamenco is like a fine wine; it gets better with age" and this is so true.

I recently found an example of an older and also iconic dancer, Eva La Yerbabuena, at the Bienal in Sevilla in 2006.  She is surrounded by a crowd of male musicians, also in an old-school ruffly dress and hair combs, this one bronze and coral.  She is curvy and very tiny.  The men look like they tower over her and yet, she is completely dominating that stage.  This performance is the Fin de Fiesta, or "end of the party", which is what it sounds like--the last number in a show.  This number is usually a bulerías, like it is here.  Bulerías comes from the word burlar, which means to tease or kid around.  Even though it's obvious in her dancing that she is having fun and sort of "joking around" in her moves, she's still demonstrating such a commanding presence.  She's floating on Miguel Poveda's cante, coming in with amazing contestaciones, or percussive responses, and thoroughly enjoying the sense that she's obviously in charge of the scene.  And they're all enjoying it too.  One of my favorite parts is where, to the novice eye, it may seem like she's doing nothing.  It's in the middle, when she's just standing facing the audience, with her hands on her hips, waiting.  She's just waiting and enjoying the wait.  That is something so hard to learn how to do in Flamenco, believe it or not.  It takes great command to know how to be comfortable just waiting onstage.  And to wait with her hands on her hips!  I love it.  It's such a classic womanly pose.  ¡Ole!

Flamenco is beautiful and powerful for men and women alike, but there is definitely something to be said about seeing a woman in such a classic, feminine costume, holding her space, making her presence known and felt.  ¡Ole a las guapas!