I thought it would be my last class.

That’s why I stayed after—to tell Brenna how much I’d appreciated her clear and light-hearted instructional style. (As a long-time teacher myself, I vow to never let good teaching go unacknowledged.)

I was also telling her I couldn’t continue. A schedule conflict had come up, and it seemed more rational and career-smart to choose the Wednesday evening writing group meetings over flamenco lessons.

Then somehow we got talking about body shapes. Maybe I openly admired her elegant floreos—the signature hand movements that look less, well, "flowery” with my stubby fingers. She rolled her eyes and said she always feels like a giraffe in the flamenco world, especially in Spain, where she towers over most people. And suddenly we were doing that thing humans often do: pining for a different set of genes. You know—the one with curly hair wishes hers were straighter, and the one with straight hair longs for curls. The one with short, muscular limbs (me) admires the long, graceful movements of the other, while that one wishes she didn’t stand out in a crowd.

But what this dance teacher said next caused me to reprioritize my schedule.

She told me (and I’m paraphrasing here) that when new students come through the classes, she and her colleagues notice the various body types and wonder what each shape will bring to the style.

Think about that.

Let that sink in for a minute. “What will that body shape bring to our style?”

Not: This one looks like a dancer, but that one doesn't.
And not: How long will it take to make that body conform to our ideals?

Maybe I’m still scarred from the anorexia-bulimia-fraught gymnastics world of the ‘70s and ‘80s (and from living in a female body for 50+ years), but this felt revolutionary. Here was a place—a dance studio, no less—that welcomed and expected variations in women’s bodies. That was enough to hook me. After all, my jazz dance teacher used to describe to our class of high school girls exactly what a perfect pair of legs should look like, meaning where gaps of daylight should appear when standing with your legs together. When I was thirteen, my ballet teacher told me that my rib cage was not actually supposed to stick out farther than my breasts. Those are the only words from either teacher that stuck with me.

Beyond the welcoming body attitude, I also liked Brenna’s philosophy of getting students performing as soon as possible. (Art is for sharing, remember, and perfection is not the point.) So I signed up for the next session and took the stage a few months later at the December show. That was one year ago, and since then I've tucked three more performances under my belt. The next one is this Sunday.

New, Yet Familiar, Yet New

I’m not new to dancing, and to be fair, I’ve enjoyed many years of tutelage with the most fun-loving and inclusive teachers imaginable. (Shout out to the inimitable hiphop teachers, Jessie and Mariecella! And to Jacquie, from way back in my samba days.) This is the first time since college, however, that I’m taking dance classes at a studio devoted to skill-building and exploration of a cultural art form, and not at a gym devoted to exercise and fitness. (I still attend and love those, too.)

What Brenna and her co-director Lillie offer through Espacio Flamenco is a range of music and dance classes at various levels of difficulty, and a corps of master-level instructors and performers. That’s probably why I relate it more to the martial arts community I left behind in Oakland, than to my decades of dance-based exercise classes.

And speaking of martial arts, I similarly appreciated the wide range of body types that found a home within our Cuong Nhu Karate community. But sometimes “being female” still feels like pushing the envelope in that world. In contrast, I’ve found flamenco dancing to be a wild celebration of feminine power unlike anything I’ve encountered.

That’s what I want to dissect here.

Say More About That Power

It’s not just that the co-directors are women and the vast majority of performers on stage this Sunday will be female. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, like I was after attending several all-female classes, men do also dance flamenco, and they’ve historically become disproportionately world-famous at it, too. Sort of like how male chefs dominate the culinary scene, despite the fact that women do 99% of world-wide daily cooking: because the women are home taking care of everyone with no time to become world-famous. Fortunately this is changing with the times, in cooking, flamenco, and everything else.

So yes, it’s a female-centric community I’ve stumbled into, and I love the esprit de corps. But it’s more than that.

There’s the attention-commanding, percussive footwork.
The graceful lines.
The bursts of intense drama, followed by playful release. Followed by more intense drama, and more relief. (As in life?)
The expressive faces.
The interplay between dancers, singers, and musicians.
And the costumes. Polka dots! Ruffles! Flouncy skirts! My new appreciation for frills surprises no one more than me.

While all of those things have an appeal, they're still not “it”—not the thing that makes flamenco feel so unusual, and even addictive. They’re not the thing that compels me to drive (or bike) across town to a funky warehouse under a bridge and strap on high heeled, nail-studded shoes that I ordered from Spain.

There Are Rules

The built-in constraints have something to do with it, but only indirectly. (I’ll give examples in a sec.) In my visual arts practice, I’m beginning to understand how rules enhance creativity, rather than restricting it. Unbounded freedom can be stifling and overwhelming, which is super ironic, right? We think of art as being loose and breezy—anything goes. But I feel most stuck when I walk into my ridiculously well-stocked studio with time but no plan, meaning with the ability to do... whatever I want. I’m not complaining about this problem-of-good-fortune, but the burden of choice can be a real zinger. In my old studio especially, I’d often stand there, putter around in circles for a few minutes, and leave, defeated.

Conversely, I feel at my most creative when given strict parameters to work within. Sometimes I make them up myself, like during the Use It Or Lose It Challenge of November 2017, that I detailed here on my blog. Other times they’re given to me by a client, such as the mural project I’m working on now that needs to fit X dimensions, involve Y number of people, and relate to theme Z.

Flamenco, like most dance forms, is bound by a set of rules. If it weren’t, if “anything goes," then how would you distinguish between flamenco and ballet, hiphop and salsa, samba and the waltz, other than by the music? Flamenco, for example, demands a separation between the upper body and lower body movements, so while your feet are snapping out an explosive pattern, above the waist you’re suave and flowy like it’s no big deal. And you need to keep a space under your armpits like you’re holding a mandarin orange there—no arms drooping at your sides. And you lift your feet behind you and use gravity to drop them in place, rather than stomping with knees up in front.

I’m still learning these and other techniques, of course, and trying to make my movements look flamenco-ish. That's part of the fascination—seeing what else humans have invented for this basic body we all have, what other ways we can train it to move in.

But it's still not the thing.

So, what is IT then?

What is this “wild celebration of female power” that I mentioned earlier? What about it feels novel?

Let’s look at what it’s not.

You know how in ballet, a lithe, willowy dancer is spun and held aloft by a man on whom she relies literally for safety and support? Yes, she may be the star of the show, but he darn sure better catch her or she’s screwed. Flamenco is not that.

And how in ballroom dancing, the woman is led by her partner, who again, better be good at his job or she’s doomed? She’s got the flashier costume and the impressive kicks, but he’s kinda running the show and she has to do everything backwards. Flamenco is typically performed solo, so that leader-follower dynamic is not present.

You’re familiar with music videos, and have maybe been to dance clubs, or seen a basketball game halftime show, or pictures of the costumes in Brazil’s Carnivale—all full of skillful dancers in a variety of great dance styles. But the sexual innuendo, or even the overt sexualization of women’s bodies often comes across as the main point. It can feel like entertainment through seduction. Bodies for visual consumption. That’s not what flamenco is like, either.

Here’s the Thing

Flamenco has an element of sexuality for sure, but here’s the thing: It’s a woman demonstrating the full range of human emotions. She’s elegant and staid, then she’s saucy and sassy and irreverent. Next minute she’s soft and graceful, but now she seems furious as she practically flips you off and turns away in disgust. Then she’s back with tender generosity. Then she’s arrogant and prim, very buttoned-up. Then comical and boisterous. Then fun-loving and friendly. Different flamenco styles (or palos) highlight specific moods, but in a show like the one this weekend you’ll be treated to a smorgasbord of ways of being feminine. And they are all legitimate, even if we’re wearing them as theater.

So Many Ways of Being

I’m not suggesting that women should or do ride emotional rollercoasters like I just described, nor that if they do (which, let’s face it, we sometimes do), it should count as entertainment. Art is an expression of the human condition, and flamenco is intended for performance. But this unapologetic range of emotion is the piece that feels different from anything I’ve experienced in my life as a female born and raised in the United States. Where else are women celebrated for showing nuanced feelings and a diversity of experiences with their bodies? Where else do we get to display so many ways of being, then have people clap and cheer for us?

All the messages I got growing up said that if you look sexy, you’re a slut and you’re “asking for it.” If you’re angry, well that’s your irrational nature. If you’re forceful, that’s unladylike. If you’re funny, that’s not ladylike, either. If you’re a mom or you have body fat, you shouldn’t dance at all—especially not in a form-fitting dress (see “sexy”, above).

I’ve worked myself past some of those expectations, but I always feel like an outlier while I’m at it. I’ve performed flashmobs in the streets of Oakland with a cadre of mostly middle-aged hiphop dancers, just to surprise and delight people and give ourselves a healthy shot of terror. :) I’ve spent years honing skills like board-breaking and flying kicks and judo take-downs, because I don’t like being told what a small woman in her 40s or 50s should or shouldn’t be able to do. But I’ve never in my life known how to feel sexy without also feeling cheap and fake. That’s one edge I’m exploring now—normalizing my sexuality and my femininity. I think flamenco is helping.

The magical thing about flamenco is that you’re supposed to be many things. Not just perfectly controlled, like in ballet. Not only provocative, like in hiphop. Not primarily malleable, like in partner dances. Not genderless, like in martial arts. Rules dictate the structures of the dance form, but within those constraints it’s about expressing human-ness, and apparently in Spain, human-ness can include sexuality without it being a big freaking deal.

I Also Notice The Men

When I watch flamenco videos on YouTube, I’m not only captivated by the women dancing with unabashed feminine strength. I’m equally amazed to watch the men, who are usually singing or playing guitar for them (from the depths of their souls, by the way), look on with admiration and what feels like a comfortable acceptance of all the ways women can be. They might look amused and enchanted and entertained, but it doesn’t seem like they’re surprised by any of it, nor are they dictating—or having any say at all about—how the women should act.

(Am I the only one whose ex-husband used to tell me how I should stand, what things I shouldn’t have said, where I shouldn’t put my hands, and how I should sit? Or whose mother told me just this year to be less emotional—to feel less and be more rational? Add to that a lifetime’s worth of media messages telling me/all women how to look and be and act. This is my baseline.)

Now I’m not naive enough to think that there’s no sexism in Spanish culture, or in the flamenco world. Quite the contrary, from what I hear. But within the confines of this dance form I have found s p a c e . Space for women to be multidimensional. To be serious and goofy and snooty and fierce, and frankly all of it together is pretty damn sexy when you’re wearing a full skirt and flowers in your hair.

So in flamenco I’ve found an avenue for exploring facets of myself that I’ve been taught to keep buried, hidden, under wraps. I’ve got a ways to go, because right now it’s hard enough to dance on stage without an awkward smile plastered on my face. But I’m working on it.

Does this freedom for women exist anywhere else? Have I missed something?

And importantly, can we create more space for it, please?

_ _ _ _ _

I’m curious about your experiences relating to dance, the body, and expectations of femininity. Have you found places where you can show up as your whole, multidimensional self, whether or not you identify as female? Leave a comment below or send me an email. I’d love to hear from you.