MY OBSESSION WITH FLAMENCO
By Rachel Arnold

The singer begins his cante. I step onto the stage and golpe, stamp, my left foot. It resonates with a deep rhythmic sound. My hair is long, dark and pulled back tightly. I have a flower behind my left ear. I lift my knee high and my skirt is kicked up into my hand and I fan it out around me as fanning the flames of my passion. My hands are liquid and graceful; my arms are taught and strong as I execute each move perfectly. I turn quickly and cast my eyes downward focusing my energy inward…

Yeah, right. That is my dream. It is what I try to imagine myself being when I take my flamenco class: a tall, dark haired Spanish flamenco dancer. But I am of average height, pale and wear my hair in a bob. I am Swedish and English and have none of the exotic trappings of a flamenco dancer. But every week, twice a week for nearly two years, I faithfully go to flamenco class.

I started taking dance classes, mostly jazz and modern when I was 14. Soon after I started taking classes I fell in love with Carmen. She was exotic, beautiful and an amazing dancer. And she wasn't real. For the uninitiated Carmen is a Spanish movie by the director Carlos Saura. I was fourteen or fifteen when my mom took me to see it at the Gateway theatre in San Francisco. The movie is about a choreographer who was creating a flamenco performance based on the opera, Carmen. The movie is told in the language of flamenco: the intense, quick footwork, the arms and hands that moved like butterflies, the fiery looks, the furrowed brow, the passion and the haunting voices of the cantors. It was all so intoxicating. Even at such a young age I could see how passionate, strong and graceful it was and I wanted to be doing it. I remember saying to my mom that I wanted to go to Spain to study flamenco, me, a suburban white girl from Palo Alto. I wanted to be a flamenco dancer!

Over a couple of decades I pursued other forms of dance. When I was 17, I went to summer school at Harvard to do an intensive workshop taking modern and ballet classes. I looked into colleges to major in dance. I was convinced I wanted to be a dancer. But at some point I realized that I lacked the drive and the single-mindedness to become a full-time dancer. However, I never stopped taking classes through college and eventually starting my career as a graphic designer.

I had been religiously dancing with the same jazz teacher for a couple of years during my early 30's. I took her classes at least 4 days a week and did a small performance with the class. I was totally faithful to her and her classes. I even went to any performances that she was in. Then one day, in class, she announces that she is leaving, moving to New York. I felt like I had been dumped. We had been together for a couple of years. I couldn't understand how she could leave such a good relationship.

There were no other classes to take, not that I really wanted to do nor ones that would fit into my work schedule. And so I made a decision, it was time to start flamenco classes. It was, in some ways a hard decision, since for so long I had identified with a certain form of dance, which was jazz, but it also felt like a sign that it was time to start something new.

Now, I am hooked. I have been going to my flamenco class for nearly two years and progressively getting more and more involved. I knew I was making a commitment to it when one day my teacher asked if anyone in our class wanted to be in the spring show. I found myself raising my hand readily accepting this new challenge.

Our dance performance was set for June. We started working on it in March. I went into it fired up and ready to tackle all the choreography: I taped classes, I practiced at home, and I tapped out the steps while riding the underground. Then I hit a wall. I got sick and suddenly missed a couple of classes and fell behind. It was at that point that our teacher said, that we weren't doing so great and we needed to get it together. She announced that if anyone thought they couldn't handle it, they should just bow out now. I felt like she was talking directly to me. I went home with a heavy heart. I wanted so much to do it and do it well.

The following week I went in to class and decided to just enjoy myself. Once I lifted the perfectionist weight from my around my neck, I suddenly got it.

The big day came and I was so excited. I had bought a traditional flamenco costume from my teacher. I almost chocked at the price, but I told myself I wanted to look the part. I also thought it would be an incentive to do more performances.

I arrived at the theatre early. We had hours to wait until it was our time on stage. I kept expecting myself to feel nervous especially when I saw how big the theatre was and realized there would be an audience of a least 100 people or more. As we waited in the wings for our cue to go on, I finally got nervous. My palms got sweaty and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. I told myself to just go with it, that it was natural to feel nervous even if my knees were knocking together.

My hair was pulled back tightly, a flower behind my ear, and I had on a beautiful long white dress with black polka dots and ruffles at the bottom of it. It fit me perfectly. I walked onto stage and took my position. The singer began his cante and our group took our first steps. And with a furrowed brow and the intense look of a real bailaora, dancer, I danced like I belonged there, on stage.