They killed him, but Lorca does not cease to be in every tear, in every scream, of the flamenco that is sung under the Iberian Peninsulabeyond the site where it is no longer because it is everywhere.
This Monday night, before academics and writers, among foreigners of the world and among countrymen of the Spanish language, that magic of Lorca manifested itself as the lights of Cadiz in a show that it seemed designed by him. All the lights, the sky blue, the purple, that endless area that has the blue of the last city in Europe. Everything corresponded to what one imagines the lorquianas were when these were happy songs, or sad, because both qualities were in her face.
The musicians, the singers, the guitars, up to the ankles and throats and the air reflections of the dancers, responded to a rare, hidden happiness, like earth blue, and the people (the public, and they too) seemed to feel transfixed. by a gale that sent off those broken, oblique words that flamenco offers as the zone within a renunciation of love, of a rupture.
lorca again. The sigh is an air that dominates that poet like no one else of houses guarded by jealousy, or by love that is not yet jealous. And since artists start with their is of all gradations, the is that never ends, the is that seems like urgent rain, it is known that it is not essential to know, word for word, what they are saying.
Because the complaint is like a broken cloud that the poet (I feel again that it is Lorca) has arranged there so that literature (and that was full of writers) was a mystery that does not require the abundance, nor the clarity, of the letter.
Surrealism of the sun, the guitars, seemed like a thousand guitars, allied with the brightness of the fans. Those talking ankles, and how the ankles talk, how they sing, how the admired musicians see them sing this woman who flies does not fall to the ground with the is that they explain as if they just came from a game of loves.
In that special moment of happiness of the air it is not strange to feel that Lorca is also there, going up and down to discover that nothing that moves in this setting of the sea (and of all the colors of the sea) is alien to the poet who they killed to bury, and have not done, the most beautiful inspiration on earth and its sangre.
The chairs seem immobile, but behind where the dance takes place, the sung dance, they are like skeletons that overwhelm. It is, all the time, a grammar lesson from the Andalusian gorges, these chairs illuminating the jondo air of art. As if he got on the stage of the sunset of Cádiz “a nightingale that seeks its wounds”.
It is the total poem of cante, as drawn by Lorca.
The chemistry that approximates the crying of poetry. “And although I am far away / from you I always have you present / and without you I cannot live”. Sometimes the pains are clearly heard, and there are wounds made of lead or wood, and reconciliations that end in the symmetry of the heads that finally find peace and farewell. Y is.
Ay, ay, ay, ay. bulerías. Ay ay ay. Oh. Pain breathes for joy. “The life we love so much, pain and joy.” It doesn’t matter so much to say, or write, the lyrics. The imperative is silence full of air and sun. “From time to time life seems like a fantasy”.
Whatever they said in this concert of silence and rage and blue and purple and sea of the sky of Cadiz It looked like a broken flower, a forest of beautiful calves, a sun gifted by heaven so that there is no other cry than he who dries himself with the joy of dancing.
But there is pain, of course there is pain. Oh. Pain as drawn by Lorca.
[Este texto está inspirado por el espectáculo flamenco (Tiempo de luz) celebrado anoche en el Teatro Manuel de Falla de Cádiz y organizado por el Instituto Cervantes. El baile de Ana Morales, las guitarras de Miguel Ángel Cortés y José Quevedo ´Bolita` y la percusión de Pakito González (dice la nota de prensa) completan este programa encabezado por tres referentes: Carmen Linares, Marina Heredia y Arcángel].