El AZAHAR y EL AZAR

Cuando me paseo por la calle Coroleu en mi barrio de Barcelona, los naranjos que la bordean emiten su olor fresco dulzón que me lleva directamente a memorias de Jerez de la Frontera en Andalucía. 

Capullo

Jerez de la Frontera es para mí, como para tantas otras personas, inextricablemente vinculado con el flamenco. Yo llegué allí por primera vez en septiembre de 1999 para consultar los fondos del Centro Andaluz de Documentación del Flamenco. Mi objetivo era buscar información sobre el género en el flamenco para escribir un ensayo histórico, uno de los requisitos para mi doctorado. A través de la investigación fue la única manera que encontré para empezar a acercarme al flamenco, que me parecía tan fascinante como misterioso. Y allí, en la colección más extensa de documentos y grabaciones del flamenco en España, ¡lo encontré! 

Flor(ación)

Mi segunda visita fue de la mano de Chicuelo, el guitarrista con quien toqué dentro del Festival de Flamenco en marzo de 2007. Mi maleta no llegó a tiempo y tuve que subir al escenario en el mismo vestuario semi-elegante en que había viajado. El concierto tuvo lugar en una bodega de degustación de fino. Entre los oyentes, había cantaores jerezanos, que se convirtieron en amigos míos después de una larga estancia preparando un espectáculo en Tokio. Al terminar la actuación, me invitaron a seguir la juerga musical. Al día siguiente, volví a Barcelona con muchas ganas de experimentar todo lo que rodeaba al festival. 

Marchitez

En 2016, cuando mi pareja ya no podía viajar, por cuestiones de salud, me tomé 4 días para bañarme en el sol andaluz de febrero y volver a pisar al festival de flamenco. Me desayunaba muy a gusto en la azotea del piso donde me alojé en el barrio que llevaba el nombre del santo de mi amor, al final de la Calle del Duende. Y disfrutaba muchísimo del ambiente – ¡qué delicia! El vecindario era muy abierto y acogedor a los forasteros en esta época del año. Allí encontré muchos alumnos, colegas y amigos en este encuentro anual y hice muchas amistades nuevas entre los visitantes y habituales de los espacios y peñas al margen de la programación oficial. 

Polinización

En 2018, llevé a una pequeña “delegación internacional” al festival, compuesta de mi madre, Judy, su amiga de la universidad, Dodie (de hace 60 años), su pareja, Ken y una ex-alumna de mi madre de China, Xiaomei, que vino de Shanghai con su marido, Jack, para pasar su luna de miel. [Xiaomei ya era aficionada al flamenco indirectamente gracias a mi madre, ¡Eso os explicaré en otro momento!]

¡En esta ocasión, tuve la oportunidad de tocar la viola en una peña por primera vez!  

Allí, presenté una bulería original mía, “Ojo de tigre” y me hizo una ilusión enorme cuando las gitanas en la primera fila, matriarcas del barrio San Miguel, empezaron a hacerme palmas ❣️ 
Me sentía cada vez más aceptada y respetada por el mundo flamenco por mis aportaciones a este arte tan amado. 
 
Fruto 
 
El colmo ha sido mi última visita al festival, hasta ahora, unas pocas semanas antes del principio del confinamiento del 2020. Sin noción de lo que estaba a punto de caernos encima, me deleité en pasar una semana escuchando arte, viendo amigos y conociendo nuevos, participando en tertulias, siendo entrevistada en Cadena Ser (a partir de 1h 07m), improvisando con un gran cantaor, José de los Camarones – atreviéndome a exponerme, tocando y hablando en voz alta, como nunca. 
 
Madurez, fin de ciclo 
 
Después de 25 años participando en el mundo flamenco, sea en investigación, interpretación, creación o divulgación, ahora siento la tranquilidad de poder dejar lo que ha sido una lucha prácticamente constante. De reivindicación, que yo valgo para eso, sin haber nacido en la tierra de origen andaluza ni ‘tener la pinta de saber nada de flamenco’. 
 
O de seguir, si así yo lo siento y quiero, a mi manera. 

HANDEL’S MESSIAH, BARCELONA MEMORIES (2019)

When I went to the first rehearsal for our performance of the Messiah on December 23rd last month, I remembered a piece that I had started writing after our first rehearsal in 2019. Otra vuelta a la espiral!
 


It’s the Saturday before Christmas and a warm sunny morning. I get to the Auditori with twenty minutes to spare. This is partly due to the fact that I’ve come directly from the house of a new companion – one whom it has taken months for me to woo into a relaxed state of desire and exploration – and my heart is quietly joyful. I enter the building and descend the stairs leading below ground level to the subterranean universe of performers.


The amateur choir for our Messiah concert is vocalizing and so I settle backstage to warm up as I wait for them to finish. A memory suddenly flashes across my brain. It is of a performance in this same chamber hall with my ‘garage band string quartet’ (the now cringeworthily named Virus String Quartet) 12 years before. This kind of thing has been happening to me more often of late. Is it the result of my accumulating years or simply the fact of having lived in the same city for over 14 years – a first in my adult life?

Back then, in the spring of 2007, my son was 6 years old. When we had adopted Mariano the previous year, I had played informally for small groups of people on several islands of his native Cabo Verde, mostly to stay in shape but also to pass the time while we waited for his papers to come through. That evening, however, was the first time that he would see me perform in a concert hall. He had been up in the balcony, the one I could now see from across the stage, playing with the grown-up daughter of a friend of ours. I had been waiting backstage, wearing the raspberry sequined sandals that he had christened ‘zapatos de luces’ the night before.

Then I entered the stage with my fellow quartet members, bowing to acknowledge the audience’s applause. As we took our places and the clapping died down, a small voice became clearly audible in the darkened hall. ‘Mamma!’ it exclaimed. Since I was the only woman onstage, it was fairly obvious whose child this was. Charmed laughter burst out from various parts of the hall! I was secretly delighted even as I blushed. The road to motherhood had been long, rough and circuitous – much resembling how the role itself would turn out to be – requiring patience, dedication and sacrifice.

The rehearsal is about to begin, and I rejoin the present. My colleague playing principal hasn’t shown up yet and so, I’m invited to take his seat. Several friends smile at me from across the stage as I move up. This is our first rehearsal with the amateur choir, which has been preparing for next week’s performance since September. There is a multitude of singers filling the hall and what they occasionally lack in intonation, they more than make up for in enthusiasm!

I delight in the variety of emotions expressed in the rich counterpoint of the choruses, running the gamut from despair to poignancy to exaltation. Suddenly, out of the blue, I am jolted by the realization that I am currently sitting in the same hall where my love and I had attended a chamber music concert on my birthday 3 years earlier. The central aisle, now directly to the left of the seat where I am sitting onstage, leads straight up the stairs to the space for disabled audience members, which Mike had still been able to access in his electric wheelchair. I had held his hand, reveling in the glorious performance that my friends gave of a pair of my favorite pieces, the 2 Brahms string sextets. Little did I suspect how soon and in what context I would hear one of them again.

Both during the intermission and after the concert, I had introduced Mike to several of my friends for the first time, although we had been in a relationship for almost 3 years. Afterwards, we had strolled/rolled back to our nearby apartment for a simple quiet supper. I would have to get up early the following morning for a chamber music concert in another town 5 hours south.

After I had transferred Mike into bed, with the help of a large crane-like contraption which barely fit into his side of the room, I facilitated his undressing, as I did every night. When I lowered him into a horizontal position, for what was to be the last time, he began to have trouble breathing. I called his mother, who was visiting us, into our bedroom and got him back into an upright position, supporting him by sitting back-to-back on the bed as I spoke with the emergency operator on the phone. After ordering an ambulance, I turned back around to embrace him, in a position reminiscent of the Pietà. Minutes later, I suddenly realized that he had stopped breathing. An expletive forcefully escaped my mouth. And then I told him that I loved him, in case he could still hear me.

That night, I made sure that his 3 teenaged kids, who lived nearby, had the opportunity to see him before the paramedics carried him out of our apartment in a body bag.

I went to play that concert the next day, feeling blessed to have a purpose and be surrounded by friends on the first day of the hardest year of my life.

The first movement of Brahms was one of the pieces of music we chose for his memorial service, along with the theme of the Goldberg Variations, chosen by Mike’s brother, Chris, and a Dire Straits song, On Every Street, that Mike had been listening to obsessively during his last weeks.


How can a single place hold such disparate memories and associations?
It is incredible to me that so many parallel realities can co-exist in the same space. Time seems to spiral. Up, to provide perspective and down, to dig deeper into meaning.