My life with flamenco began when, as a child in Colombia, I would hear mythical tales about the gypsies, the gitanos, who for centuries had roamed the sun-drenched plains of southern Spain. Hearing of their chants and trancelike dances so inspired me that, over the years, and without ever seeing one flamenco performance, I created my own version of what these enchanting creatures looked like—how they would laugh, love, cry, sing, and dance—and how they embraced the endless arid landscape of Andalusia.
During those years of my childhood and to this day, I never think of a flamenco performance on a traditional stage. My vision has always remained the same: a gypsy alone, out of doors in the blinding desert sun, wailing while enacting a sequence of improvised yet ritualistic gestures, against white-washed walls on the remote Iberian coast. Always wandering, always of dark, lustrous skin and black-rimmed eyes. Always sensuous, untamed, and eternal.
