The very essence of flamenco lies in raw, human, physical attraction. There is nothing sexier than witnessing the performance of flamenco, let alone dancing the flamenco. This past Tuesday, I participated in a free community workshop held by Flamenco Vivo, Carlota Santana’s dance company.
Unsure of what to expect, I came dressed in a long, turquoise skirt my dad had bought for me from Argentina. I suppose I thought I had leverage over other newcomers given my small claim to what I believed to be authentic flamenco wear (upon later research I found it to be a tango ensemble). Yet, most of the participants came with colorful, full-length skirts and for those that didn’t, Carlota Santana handed out bright red, polka-dot skirts.
Across the room sat three musicians: a cajon player, a guitarist, and a vocalist, practicing songs with one of the company’s dancers. The Flamenco is heavily dependent on the music, primarily the toque (guitar), the cante (singing), and the palmas (claps).
Wearing all black and bearing the resemblance of a ballerina, Leslie Roybal would come to lead the workshop. She was a native of New Mexico and had been dancing all her life, eventually joining Flamenco Viva where she is currently both a touring dancer and a teaching artist. When I asked for any tips she could give before the lesson started, she simply grinned and exclaimed, “No! You have nothing to worry about.”
Coming together in front of the mirror, there were about fifteen of us, mostly women and a mixture of students and community residents. We began by stretching our arms and wrists, slowly and deliberately, in tempo with the music.
Precise, strong arm movements are critical to dancing the flamenco. Leslie was quick to point out that flimsy "luau arms" have no place here. After mastering the arms, Leslie taught us the symbolic claps of flamenco. There are two types: one that is slightly muted and one that is more robust.
Clapping rhythmically to the beat, I felt a surge of confidence as we hit the downbeats with our heels to the floor. Leslie taught us a few moves, including a version of the grapevine where we swung our arms and hit our heels at the end of eight counts, simultaneously turning to start the next step. Nailing structured, yet fluid arm movements while doing the grapevine and stomping my heels was fairly challenging. I felt as if my arms were flailing all over the place as we moved quickly to the music.
Yet, claiming those end beats with the strike of the heel was so invigorating.
After forgetting to change steps during a cue, Leslie proclaimed after forgetting to change steps during a cue, “The music was so good, I got lost in the sauce.”
One of the last steps we learned was the llamada, the move that signaled the singer. Like all other flamenco movements, the llamada embodied an enticing fierceness. Once the call was initiated, the singer would effortlessly slip into the music. The singer of the night had an incredibly smooth, yet vigorous voice. I asked him if he had ever trained classically, to which he told me he learned how to sing flamenco mainly from his family members, who are also flamenco musicians and dancers.
The dance was finally finished, but there was still one more element to making it complete. We had to walk back to our starting spots and dance from there. Ironically, this was the most difficult part. On the first attempt walking on, I felt extremely vulnerable and a bit awkward. Conquering the flamenco required unquestionable confidence. I imagined that I was an ostentatious bird, failing miserably at doing the mating dance.
On the second attempt, I tried following the music and letting my hips, feet and arms fall wherever it felt right. It worked. As I was dancing, I felt a strong sense of communal pride: I felt unabashedly proud to be a woman, dancing alongside others in musical reverie.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.