Atlantica - 01.04.2006, Blaðsíða 41

AT L A N T I CA 39
students there that afternoon. Marie Louise, a 23-year-old sociology
student from Copenhagen, explained that flamenco shoes’ soft leather
forms to your feet, and wearing another person’s just doesn’t do it.
To the stomping feet of a class on the other side of the wall, Marie
Louise told me that she’d been at Taller Flamenco for four days. After
taking classes for over a year in Copenhagen with a Danish teacher, she
signed up online for a week-long course as a Beginner with Knowledge.
She spent her first three-hour class one-on-one with a teacher, learning
how to stand right.
“I feel like I’m catching up, but these are not catching up,” Marie
Louise said, pulling off her right shoe and showing me a her foot,
bruised purple along the side of her big toes. “I’ve just been sleeping,
dancing, sleeping, dancing. I haven’t even seen the cathedral yet.”
It looked painful. And while the small blond seemed thrilled to
be under the personal tutelage of a professional dancer, I personally
thought it sounded... embarrassing.
Flamenco, both the music and the dance, is highly dramatic, and the
thought of a pro watching me try to emulate that drama sounded...
embarrassing. Also, as a single woman rapidly approaching 30, should
I be worried about participating in something involving mostly single
women in my age group? Did I really want to join the legions of women
that gravitated towards a partner-less dance?
Red flags were flying. I asked Marie Louise what drew her, at the
tender age of 23, to this art form.
“Above all, the attitude,” she answered firmly. “I’ve done ballet and
tango, but nothing comes close to flamenco. It’s so strong. There’s so
much energy and roughness.”
Since when were Danes so tough? I thought to myself, walking out of
the cool building back into the sun. On the walk down Calle San Luis,
I stopped in the Basilica de la Macarena to see the revered statue of the
SEVILLA a
Virgin ready to make her tour of the city the midnight before Good
Friday. Crowds of Sevillians, kids and grandparents, had come to see the
statue, tears streaming down her cheeks in her flowing blue robes.
I was surprised how few foreign tourists were around, considering
that at Taller Flamenco none of the students I’d seen were Spanish. I had
asked Monica whether all these classes – and out-of-towners like Marie
Louise and myself – were watering down flamenco’s authenticity. Were
we part of why it was getting harder to access this world?
“Flamenco is more profitable outside of Spain,” she admitted. There
are more flamenco schools in Tokyo, she said, than all of Spain. “Spanish
people love flamenco, but they don’t practice it as much as people from
other countries.”
THE PROFESSIONAL
Lola told me not to change into my yoga clothes. (At least, she made
a no-no gesture with her forefinger when I brought them out.) I came
to class wearing a skirt, and judging from the flowy numbers other stu-
dents had on, that was better to imitate the ruffled bata de cola dresses
that women dancers wear when performing. The school didn’t have any
shoes to lend me, so I wouldn’t be stomping the hour-long class away in
stocky flamenco heels like most of my classmates.
Like Taller Flamenco, Escuela Flamenca Juan Polvillo is tucked into a
side street in a residential neighborhood away from the madding crowds
of the twisting city center. After walking amidst the Holy Week proces-
sions, I found this district – La Macarena, near the Plaza San Marcos – a
relief. I had been a few minutes early to class, and had a quick espresso
in one of the plaza’s outdoor cafés to steel my nerves.
Still, when the time finally came, I found myself slinking into the
classroom. It was a long rectangle, with a mirrored wall and hollow
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