16th December 1927. That was ninety-eight years ago. Sevilla Stadium, and the overwhelming personality and bullfighting fortune of Ignacio Sanchez MejiasThey are organizing a meeting of poets to commemorate the third centenary of the death of the Cordoban poet. Luis de Gongora, eternal light of the Golden Age of Castilian literature.
The main day is held in the auditorium of the Economic Society of Friends of the Country From Rioja Street, the Three Kings Parade is being prepared at the Ateneo facilities – a dream come true for Jose Maria Izquierdo—the gaze of a grown-up child—. No more than thirty or forty people attend the first literary evening, which ends around midnight. Many empty seats, hollow. All the Sevillian poets from the magazine are present, however. Noon: Romero Murube, Llosent, Laffón, Sierra, Villalón… Y Hadrian del Valle, which he threw at Federico, after reading these poems of his Gypsy Ballads, “The jacket, the collar, and the tie.” And a certain Luis Cernudawith her head down and wanting to become invisible, to become Air profile.
After the recitations and the magnesium flash of the famous photograph, Ignacio takes the poets to his estate to celebrate the encounter and life itself. The cold, distant air of Seville contrasts sharply with the warmth of what is about to unfold in the main hall of the Pino Montano Estate, illuminated by candles reminiscent of religious brotherhoods. He bought the estate Joselito the Rooster to your brother Rafael, which we already know what it was like The Divine Bald Man with things that had to do with the jundelas. When the poets of '27 arrived in Seville, the estate already belonged, although not officially, to LolaJosé's sister and Ignacio Sánchez Mejías's wife. It's a place surrounded by pine trees, far from the noise and bustle of the city. The air, sharp and mysterious, runs through the palm trees, skimming the flowerbeds of carnations and roses, hovering over the battlements that crown the facade. That Andalusian refuge of shadows and soft light, with whitewashed walls, will become, for a few eternal hours, the epicenter of the story of flamencoA moment remembered a thousand times.
Silence falls over the meeting. The chamomile tea continues to flow, but there are no more poetry recitations—which Damaso alonso has recited from memory the Solitudes from Góngora, from python to tail, in Spanish and in English—neither hypnotism, nor never, never No Moors, no spiritualism, no youthful and carefree laughter. That's all over now. If it ends, in the language of Apollonian y Breton.
"At that moment, the flamenco It is more than an art. It is a way of life, a way of trying to understand the world through pain, passion, and freedom. It is the earth itself, the roots of existence, the spirit of the creator.
Night falls in black. A somber, respectful black, where goblins peek through the cracks of tightly sealed windows. The lights and shadows of art emerge. flamenco...with all its tragedy and madness on its back. It is the hour of the hoarse guitar and the dense air of cante.
Everyone looks at a true Gypsy from Jerez de la Frontera, “a pharaoh's trunk,” “a wounded wild animal,” “a terrible well of anguish and black sounds,” “the man with the most culture in his blood,” who declared Federico Garcia LorcaHe sits in a rush-seated chair in a corner, drinking brandy, his gaze fixed on the ground as if he could see through the earth. Beside him, Manuel Gómez Vélez, Manolo from HuelvaA faithful squire on nights when goblins may or may not appear. That was the least of their concerns. What mattered was being where one needed to be. Positioning oneself where the bulls dealt out horn wounds and glory. And that was the place, the exact spot, where he always was. Don Manuel Soto Loreto -or Leyton"What does it matter?" Over the years, Ignacio would take him by the hand to several doctors to cure the incurable ailments that took him to his grave in the summer of 1933.
Some have said that it was just a party for rich kids. Not at all. It was a celebration of culture: both written and sung. Anyone who wants to step out of line is free to do so. But the thing about The lost grove de Alberti And what other attendees felt didn't follow that path of knights and vassals. Here, the inexplicable was experienced, something that can only be understood through emotion, never through reason. On that estate, on that night, the poets and artists allowed themselves to be carried away by something greater than themselves, something that overflows between the music and the verses, which, in the end, are one and the same.
García Lorca is at the party, and his Poem of the cante jondoDámaso Alonso, somewhat bewildered, thought that Your street is no longer your street, / it's just any street / a road from anywhere It was popular and not the work of Manuel Machado. Gerardo diego, to whom he sang in a bullfighting style Diego ClavelRafael Alberti, who Calixto Sanchez I would sing to him Marinero on land. Jorge Guillen, Cante jondo, cante jondo / a sigh goes away and hides. José Bergamínalready dreaming of The silent music of bullfighting. Fernando Villalon, that “if my palo... ". Juan Chabas y Pepín Bello, the cordial glue of the generation since the times of the Residencia de Estudiantes de los Madriles.
In the center of the glassy stares, Manuel Torre, the profound and wise gypsy of cante, who hones his dreams with his gaze lost in the race of a greyhound chasing a hare through the wilderness, preparing to do the cante that vibrates in the entrails.
"The cante jondoWith its purity and depth, it unfolds in all its splendor. Manuel Torre's voice is a river of laments, of silent complaints and stifled cries that only he can understand. flamenco can translate. Each note, each verse, resonates with unusual force, as if the Andalusian land itself were speaking through its gypsy throat, telling stories of goblins, of spirits that wandered between the living and the dead."
El flamencoAt this moment, it is more than an art. It is a way of life, a way of trying to understand the world through pain, passion, and freedom. flamencoNow, it is the earth itself, the roots of existence, the spirit of the creator. Meanwhile, the duende has settled at the very heart of the flamenco and literary gathering.
El cante jondoWith its purity and depth, it unfolds in all its splendor. The voice of Torre is a river of laments, of silent complaints and stifled cries that only the flamenco can translate. Each note, each third, resonates with an unusual force, as if the Andalusian land itself were speaking through its gypsy throat, telling stories of goblins, of spirits that wandered between the living and the dead. The air vibrates, as if the magic of flamenco could undo reality itself.
The night's chill has spilled into the estate, by the fireplace, where the olive branches crackle. Yet the musicians and poets are, quite literally, surrendered to the magic of flamencoas if they were unaware of the passage of time. The goblin, that mysterious and ethereal entity, has taken over everyone present, filling the room with a surreal atmosphere. The canteThe words of Lorca intersect with the words of Torre, while the eyes of the poets shine with a feverish light, as if they could see beyond what they actually see.
The first light of dawn dissipates the moment. The murky clarity of morning tinges the low, leaden sky with a mixture of grays and white clouds. The truth of flamenco It has been unleashed. With a single blow, the collar of postures and corrections has been thrown off. Tears well up in the eyes of the man from Granada. The man from Morón pulls at his hair. The Pino Montano hall has been enveloped by a wintry stillness, by an explosion held back for centuries by art, by passion, and by hearts beating to the rhythm of the seguiriya, a rhythm that remains in memory forever. In the background, a dog barks. ♦
