Flamenco is my fire dance

Published: January, 2004, The Globe and Mail
by June Chua

I have been learning flamenco dance for almost three years but when I mention it in conversation, some people seem confused.

I repeat the same, tired response: "I never perform." I also never sign up for class demonstrations. This irritates some people, who ask: "Why would you learn flamenco, never to perform it?" I tell them that I do it for me, which puzzles them even more.

Image from www.flamenco.ca

Flamenco isn't about performing, it's about the dancer and why she dances.

People often mistake flamenco for one of many Latino dances: salsa, the merengue. Flamenco dancers wear long skirts fringed by a ruffle or three. They dance by whacking the stage with shoes with nails embedded in the toe points and heels to make that machine-gun ka-tak! sound. It can be danced alone, in a group, or with a partner. My teacher Esmeralda Enrique calls it "a Diva Dance." A woman I know who started classes recently says it's different that other forms of dance she's tried.

"When you see it, you're not so much struck by the movement, but by the feeling ... your personality and character adds to it," she told me. "When you dance flamenco, it comes from the inside."

Flamenco originated with the Moors and Arabs in ancient times and was picked up by the gypsies of Andalusia, Spain. It became the traditional song and dance of the gypsies as a way to express their feelings through dramatic footwork, intricate guitar playing, and mournful music.

Flamenco is also fun, unlike other dance forms I have tried.

My first dance experience was at the age of five. My mother insisted on ballet lessons, thinking it would imbue me with feather-light grace. But it confirmed my worst fears: I have no co-ordination. I grew up clumsy --- falling, scraping my knees and elbows, scalding my legs on motorcycle engines. I tried ballroom dancing with my partner, but we gave up when the teacher singled us out for extra instruction.

I discovered flamenco in Spain. I hooked up with Natasha, a 19-year-old American, at the train station in Grenada. She reminded me of the actress Geena Davis: tall, pretty, toothy smile. While wandering the city, she ended up buying three pairs of chunky-heeled shoes.

"For my flamenco," she explained.

I took a picture of Natasha and her three new shoes. I still have that photo, and it brings back everything I experienced with her. Natasha, despite her sunny demeanor, had a dark childhood. She had come from a very poor family, experienced abuse and had grown up in a series of foster homes. I remember thinking how mature she seemed after all she had been through. "Flamenco saved my life," she told me.

"It's such a passionate, intense dance....you have to be bold to dance it"

She said doing flamenco made her strong, physically and emotionally. She felt invincible. "When you do flamenco, you must give it your all. You think about all the crap you've been through and you dance it out. That's why it's such a passionate, intense dance. Beyond that, it also gives you such a strong sense of yourself. You have to be bold to dance it." She felt that with her flamenco, no one could hurt her again.

We went to a performance that night in a cavern in the hills, 30 people crammed in. On the stage, one dancer, a guitar player and a singer in the back. She started slowly, teasing the audience, building up the cadence of her steps as the singer called out to her. "Baile! Baile!" As if ignoring his taunts, she stared straight ahead and as her feet moved with increasing speed, her stare become ferocious.

She kept pushing, faster, faster, faster. Drops of sweat glistened on face. She moved at an impossible speed, legs almost disembodied from her body. Faster, faster.

There was fire in her eyes. I can still see them boring laser-like into the back of the room. Electrifying. The intensity of her gaze caused a gush of emotions. Tears streamed down my face. As I write this, tears well in my eyes, remembering.

And then, suddenly, she stopped, and the audience seemed stunned, mesmerized by the motion and intensity of the dance. She wasn't dancing for us. She was dancing for herself.

Eight years later, I find myself heading to a basement studio in downtown Toronto every Thursday. I put on a black skirt with a ruffle skimming my ankles, slip on black suede shoes, and stride, heels clicking, to the stage. Every time I step on that stage, I am that woman in the hills of Grenada. Every time I hear a ka -tak! Natasha's words echo all around.

When I dance flamenco, I do not feel light and airy. I feel rooted to the earth, aware of the power within me. Flamenco isn't about physical grace. It is about a state of grace. That little girl with the skinned knees doesn't exist. I do not dance for someone else. When I dance flamenco, I am on fire. I am untouchable.