FLAMENCO, FLAMENCO

the group that gathered for lunch yesterday at number 12 calle duque cornejo was mixed, although we invitees were all common in our foreignness. luckily, by the time that the french woman, the dancer, arrived with her polish friend, the guitarist, i’d already made my regular mistake of offering my hand to the female roommate of our host and did the cheek kissing thing with the appropriate newcomer.

the lunch itself was far grander than i’d expected, and of extraordinarily bohemian proportions: a giant stew of lentils and tomatoes and chorizo that went by some andalucian name that i’ve already forgotten, with sandwiches of sliced chorizo and jamón iberico to necessitate washings down with beer, followed by a round of tea and cakes, which were prepared and served during the rolling of cigarettes and the sipping of digestifs. (and all of it sustained with much less pretension that all that.)

i’d expected to be alone with the host, but with the french woman and the polish man and the two roommates we were six, and my spanish was by far (by far) the worst of the group, and i was, even for the comfort of the food and the drinks, even more afraid of sharing with the group than i’d already expected to have been when i thought i’d be in the situation one on one. but i could listen; and yes, i had seen “flamenco, flamenco,” and i’d seen “flamenco” too, but i didn’t contribute my opinion on either, although the conversation was familiar.

the guitarist thought “flamenco, flamenco,” the latter of those two of carlos saura’s films, a work of kitsch that seemed intended for viewers outside of the world of flamenco, and our host, who had worked as an assistant on the film after finishing film school in madrid, did his best to justify the elements of it that he thought justifiable. it’s true, the film absolutely did not need those long close-up shots of farruquito’s face as he was just kind of jiving to the playback. and it may not be true that farruquito is handsome, but the film does also (although perhaps not for self-described “purists”) have justifiable elements. like i said, i didn’t contribute my opinion this time around. but i was charmed and humored, nonetheless, and not just by the graciousness of our host and the fine meal -- and not only because the french woman at one point inexplicably broke my silence to compliment my posture.

it was the atmosphere, and that the group was talking about art and atmosphere, and about art films and whether a film expressly about flamenco should be one or not, and about whether it needed any affected atmosphere in addition to what the art itself already had. and amid all of that i smiled to myself while musing on arte and ambiente and informal spanish lessons from get-togethers past, and thinking to myself what you’re probably thinking about all this description of it. that’s right. this is really gay. And nobody ever suspects la mariposa.