While living in Madrid, I regularly visited a small authentic ‘tablao’, a basement where you find sweaty flamenco dancers, bewitched by the spirited accords of the Spanish guitars, and by the rasping voices and the rhythmic clapping of the excited singers. There I sat, in trance, inebriated, carried away by the Duende, the Spanish soul that takes possession of all of us.
The 6 strings of the guitar tremble while the seductive dancer hypnotizes her partner with her titillating moves. He has only one goal: with his untamable force he wants to disappear underneath her rustling skirt. Finally, he kneels before her, his head down, offering himself to her while she, relentlessly, launches the attack to relieve him from his suffering.