Dancing with Authenticity
Dancing with Authenticity
by John Casaus | Pacific Grove, CA
In Granada, I walked through the heart of flamenco. Under the watchfulness of the Alhambra, a hush fell over the old quarter as the late afternoon light gave whitewashed walls a warm, golden glow. The winding streets and alleyways had emptied, save for a trickle of locals and a few wandering travelers. The scent of flowers and the faint strums of a guitar drift through a shuttered window. The Sacromonte barrio—home to the Gitanos, or gypsies, for centuries—is a place of contrasts: ancient yet alive, humble yet rich in spirit. It is the heart of gitano flamenco culture, where art isn’t just performed, but lived.
Within this storied neighborhood, song and dance are passed down through generations like cherished heirlooms. A simple night can highlight the timeless magic living beneath a sky littered with countless stars. Ancient homes built into carved-out caves, streets that wind through the hillside, numerous restaurants, and small-venue flamenco tablaos. In years past, spontaneous flamenco could break out into the streets during holidays or in the early morning as patrons left bars after a night of imbibing.
One can see there’s a real passion here. It lives within the white-washed buildings connected by the rough cobblestone streets that have guided people here for centuries. Walking the streets, you can see this in the eyes of the residents. The eyes of people who have and continue to face struggles to this day. They bid “buenos dias” or “buenas tardes” as you pass.
An aged wooden door draws one into the warmth of a tablao. The room hums with life. Strangers and locals alike gather at small wooden tables, leaning in close, their faces alight with anticipation. The splash of wine into glasses and the occasional burst of laughter rise above the murmur.
The lights dim. A hush falls, and a single, solemn spotlight bathes the stage. All eyes turn forward. From the shadows, the faint, deliberate rhythm of clapping hands begins, soft at first, like the distant beating of a heart. The rhythmic sounds echo against the plastered covered stone walls.
She appears. A lone dancer, poised at the center of the stage. Her silhouette is sharp against the light. She stands motionless, poised for a breath, drawing the room’s gaze inward. Her eyes burn from within. Her foot taps a single, clear strike against the wooden floor. Then another followed by a fast cadence of taps, creating a sound into a language older than words.
Suddenly, guitars explode into life. Raw, mournful, defiant. With arms slicing through the air, the dancer’s skirt swirling, her body becomes a conduit for a thousand untold stories. The crowd erupts with cheers, the dancer’s movements build into a storm of passion and precision.
As the night continues, more dancers take the stage. Each of the dancers brings a new spirit to the performance. Some dance fiercely, others tenderly; all dance with authenticity. Each dance and every beat capture the soul of Granada.
In societies where there are shared struggles for the basic necessities, life isn’t taken for granted, there is a stronger and more passionate view of life. Music, food and shared experiences are more authentic.
I recall a passage from James A. Michener’s Iberia: “From the time that money began to be regarded with honor, the real value of things was forgotten.” Under the ancient watchfulness of the Alhambra and the hills of Granada and Sacromonte, the sounds of a vibrant crowd drift into the narrow streets. Somewhere behind a stone façade, laughter and the clinking of glasses blend with the pulse of something deeper, an unseen energy that pulls passersby toward its source.
