El Baile

At first there were only the musicians on a small, wooden box of a stage. The acoustic guitarist seemed to be running the show. The flute, the bass, and the percussion all had their eyes fixed on the guitar, watching his fingers so they knew what to do next. There were no music stands, no notes to read, simply music. After two songs, a woman elegantly dressed with long curly black hair and an immense amount of makeup on her face sat down next to the guitarist. Though the makeup was more than sufficient, it didnt make her look fake or gaudy in any way. Her eyes were fixed on the guitar as well. Her voice followed the guitarist fingers. To the ear who is accustomed to hearing music that seems to flow together well, a flamenco song can almost be labeled as noise. But for those who know the meaning behind it, the agony expressed throughout the lyrics is, in its own very paradoxical way, beautiful. After she sang one song, the dancer came out in a black and white polka-dotted traditional dress. Suddenly, everyone on stage shifted gears. All eyes were on the dancer now, the guitar moved to her beat, she called the shots.

Although this only lasted about half an hour in total, it must have been one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. The rhythm was purely fascinating, the talent - beyond incredible. It seemed as though there were no rules, but the guitarist and the dancer were making them up as they went along...and somehow the others instinctively knew exactly how to follow them.

Last night I went with my cousin and her friends to a salsa club. They have taken classes for about a year and a half. There is a group of about 8 in their mid-20s. Even though I once won a can of Mountain Dew at a dance-off, my dancing skill means nothing in light of them. It was a similar feeling I had watching the Flamenco when I watched this group dance. They owned the dance floor. Yet, unlike the Flamenco, there was no audience for these guys. Sure, they show off their moves, but they do not make money from it or even care if others watch. Somehow, the reward of all their hard work in learning each move, is simply dancing those same moves. Even when a partner would go dance with someone else, and no one else wanted to dance, these guys would dance by themselves. There was no second guessing what one was to do when the salsa music was playing.

I suppose it is how anyone feels when they are able to show off (for lack of a better phrase) the talents they have attained. There is freedom that comes from putting into practice what one knows. For instance, when I was in Spain, I was so excited that I could speak the language and understand what was going on around me (well at least a lot more than I can here in Italy). The flamenco dancer was free, alive, and content when she was doing what she has cultivated her life around. The same for my cousin and her friends while dancing. The pain, the hardship of dancing the wrong steps so many times, of saying the wrong word or in the wrong tense, the agony of feeling you can never get something right and you want to just give up...this is what turns into freedom. Like a catepillar into a butterfly, like a seed having to die to bring forth life.