By Mike Bernhardt
Spanish poet Federico García Lorca spoke of duende: “A mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains. There are neither maps nor exercises to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass.”
Duende lives in the “tears of blood” that we cry when our hearts are broken and the hush of the spectators when a bull looks at a matador moments before the sword is plunged into its heart.
On a trip to Granada, Spain, I sat facing a stage where a man played a guitar. His gentle and passionate strums, spoke of love, loss, and an excruciating sense of mortality; of lives lived in minor keys. His fingers burned with grieving arpeggios then a woman began to sing—she wailed, screamed and cried.
The flamenco dancer entered, dressed in black. Her face carried the weight of lifetimes of struggle. Her shoes clacked on the floor as she stepped slowly, deliberately. She turned and held a pose, face turned up, brow furrowed, eyes closed. Several voices called “Olé!” Her face lowered again, she twirled her shawl around herself, then threw it back onto her shoulders. Her feet began to move, percussing complex patterns on the floor, increasing speed until her calves and feet were a blur while her hands and fingers traced arcs above her head. Dance, guitar, and voice all combined into a soaring symphony of passion. A final pose, a slow graceful turn, a final “Olé!”.
In the music and the terrifying snap of her dress, duende slapped my soul.
