Collages
from the Flamenco Series:
A Fragmentary Anecdotal Postscript
The following narrative was originally written by JT
to accompany an exhibition entitled "Collages from the
Flamenco Series" which took place at the Joseph Rickards
Gallery in New York City in 1998.
Losing
one's way intentionally, as exciting as it is, can also be tiring.
Resting against a stone wall somewhere south of Granada, I looked
back on the path I had climbed. Around me, the mountainside
was covered with almond trees whose branches were laden with
sweet smelling blossoms funereal in their antique ivory whiteness.
Below, in a valley marked by small cultivated garden plots and
groves of olive trees, I watched diminutive peasants dressed
in black drift silently in and out of the shadows of a tiny
village, oblivious to the fact that they were being observed
from above.
That
I found myself, at the age of nineteen, a solitary wanderer on
that Andalusian track, was the result of neither chance nor choice.
Sometimes, after the fact, when called upon to explain what had
drawn me to Spain, I credited the recordings of Pastora Pavon,
La Niña de Los Peines. At other times I attributed my afición
for Andalucia to my having read Gerald Brennan's wonderful study
of the Alpujarra, the title of which has already found its way
into this narrative. On occasion I pointed to the writings of
that marvelous linguist and traveler George Borrow as having inspired
my adventures. To strangers who asked, I explained that my desire
to visit Spain was prompted by my love for the guitar, an instrument
which I had played since early childhood. "Spaniards have taken
guitar music to heights unmatched anywhere else in the world,"
I would say, "my desire to experience that music was the reason
for my journey."
Although
these answers sounded both reasonable and credible, they served
(as was their design) to obscure the real reasons for my journey.
What follows, although seemingly less plausible, is actually closer
to the truth.
For
most of my childhood I had cultivated a fancy the implications
of which were secret even from myself. I imagined that one afternoon
in spring, some nine months before my birth, on a day when the
moon showed moth white in a bright blue sky, a wandering gypsy,
tiring of trudging through the dust of Quaker Hill Road, found
his way to the door of my maternal family's country home in upstate
New York in search of something to ease his thirst. In my fantasy,
my mother, finding him pleasing to behold and attracted by his
scent, invited him in. In her loneliness, I imagined that she
offered him more than water and that he accepted. I supposed that
they found both passion and pleasure in each other's bodies, and
that I was the result of their ecstatic union. Thus it was that
I perceived my journey to the south of Spain, through the lens
of my fantasy, to be a homecoming.
The
reality of my situation was quite the opposite. Having left New
York somewhat precipitously, my luggage was limited to what I
could carry. A guitar and a knapsack containing a change of clothes
and a handful of books were, although I didn't know it at the
time, my entire worldly possessions. Still, while in the States
my financial situation would have been desperate, in Spain my
modest resources would allow me to live frugally for some time.
I was in no hurry.
The
campesino who, leading a burro on which a young boy was seated,
slowly ascended the path to my resting place was not hurrying
either. When my only response to his questions (since they were
unintelligible to me) was "Yo no hablo Español" he indicated with
gestures that if I would walk with them the child would balance
my knapsack and guitar atop the burro. Relieved of my burden and
thankful for the company, I happily agreed.
The
water in the old man's leather bottle tasted of pine tar but it
sustained us as we trudged northward. I fumbled through the pages
of my pocket dictionary as he, with more energy than skill, attempted
to teach me the rudiments of Spanish. At times the boy attempted
to aid in the effort and I did learn, after some effort, that
he was the old man's grandson
It
seemed that they were impressed that I was headed for Granada.
With the help of my dictionary I managed to learn that the campesino
had visited "la capital" in his youth but that at least fifty
years had passed since then. "Es muy grande," he said. "Hay mucha
gente." By keeping his sentences short he did, indeed, make it
easier for me to decipher his meaning but I wondered, as we walked,
whether he was capable of longer sentences at all. Often we lapsed
into silence, the strain of communication across the language
barrier being more than either of us could handle, but after a
rest we would try again. I am indebted to this generous patriarch
for much of that which passed between us as we traversed the mountainside
remains with me to this day and those first few strained hours
eventually became the basis of my understanding of the Spanish
idiom.
At
length, preparing to turn off the track onto some unmarked trail
leading to their home hidden behind a serrated ridge, the old
man halted the burro and, returning my guitar and pack, embraced
me. Then he pushed me back onto the main path and, pointing in
the direction we had been traveling, said "Granada es por allá."
The boy adding his "Adiós," they turned their backs and, with
the old man in the lead, soon disappeared behind the ridge. If
they told me their names that day (and I am not sure that they
did) I cannot remember them now.
Granada
was indeed in that direction, but when I finally entered that
fabled city I was no longer afoot. Just before dark of the day
following my encounter with the campesino and his grandson, I
had found my way to the road which bypasses the western end of
the Sierra Nevada on its way from Malaga to Granada. There I had
flagged down a bus and, finding the cost of the fare to the city
to be less than sixty pesetas (the equivalent of one American
dollar) I the thought of finding a bed to sleep in and the opportunity
to rest my feet to make a decision for me. Thus it was that my
arrival in the city of the Alhambra was more modern than mythic.
Remaining
seated during the few moments of confusion which resulted from
the other passengers retrieving their belongings from the overhead
racks, I was the last one to leave the bus. Under the arches which
formed the front of the station were some benches and, not knowing
what to do next, I sat down to try to come up with a plan.
I
had not been sitting for more than a moment when I was approached
by a gnomelike figure who resembled nothing more than one of Callot's
Gobbi.
"Extranjero," he asked? Guía? Guide?
I opened my hands, palms upward, to indicate that I had little
money but he was not discouraged...
"Hotel," he asked?
"Poco dinero," I replied, "No puedo pagar Usted."
"No importa," he responded, "el hotel paga."
"Hotel demasiado dinero," I responded, looking up the word for
"too much" in my pocket dictionary.
I
can't remember exactly how it came to be arranged, but eventually
"el cojo" (for that turned out to be the name by which he was
known) led me to the pension La Tuna in the Naranjo de San Matías,
a small alley hidden away just a few blocks from the city center.
I considered it a good omen that the pension had no sign, for
I thought that the lack of advertisement might indicate lower
prices.
My
guide's impatient knocking resulted in a small sliding portal
in the massive oak door being opened. After we had been scrutinized,
there was the sound of latches being released and the heavy door
finally opened. We entered.
There
was a hushed conversation between the dueña of the pension and
my guide and it appeared that I would be refused admittance...
"No sé," I heard the patroness say, "...es extranjero... No queremos
extranjeros aqui..."
For
some reason, however (probably an anticipated propina), my hunchbacked
guide enthusiastically pleaded my case. "Es tarde," he said. "Dejale
quedarse aqui por esta noche. Mañana veremos."
It
was settled and I was shown a tiny room up two flights of stairs.
In response to my "cuánto?" I was informed that the room, three
meals included, would be fifty pesetas a day. More tired than
I had, up to then, been willing to admit to myself, I nodded my
agreement. The patroness and my guide withdrew and I, closing
my door, threw myself on the bed and was soon asleep.
In order to better appreciate the rest of this narrative, it becomes
necessary at this point to revisit New York prior to my departure
for Spain. This time the New York I refer to is not that bucolic
upstate landscape in which I was raised but rather the "insular
city of the Manhattoes" so eloquently described by another wayfaring
dreamer a century before my own arrival there.
I,
like my wayfaring mentor and so many upstaters before us, had
followed the Hudson southward in search of adventure. It was sometime
in 1958 when a chance guitar-based encounter led me to the Hell's
Kitchen workshop of "El Polaco."
In
his atelier, Polaco, a guitar maker of Polish origin, sold me
my first flamenco-style guitar. Recognizing in me what he perceived
to be enthusiasm, the guitar maker invited me to attend his weekly
flamenco soirées when members of the flamenco community then in
New York would gather at his apartment for an informal evening
of music and wine.
The
warmth with which I was received by the flamenco community was
a new experience to me. Perhaps the gypsies accepted me because
they enjoyed my admiration. Perhaps, being far from home, they
recognized in me another displaced soul. Whatever the reason,
and despite the fact that I found it difficult to communicate
in Spanish, I soon became a regular at Polaco's parties and at
the "Spanish" cafes where flamenco music, in one form or another,
provided entertainment. Having played the guitar since the age
of six, it was not surprising that I began to acquire the rudiments
of flamenco music. Before long I was given the opportunity to
perform at the fiestas and soon thereafter, in some of the nightspots.
I
loved the music. I was intoxicated by the mysterious gypsy cadences
which had their origins in the eastern Mediterranean and India.
I was thrilled by the complex rhythmic patterns which, while at
first they had defied my understanding, soon became clear, delighting
me with their syncopation and counterpoint. I was comforted by
the finely tuned social structure which the flamencos had brought
with them from Spain and I was entranced by the costumes and pageantry
of the performances. But most of all, I found in flamenco music
the opportunity to escape.
My accommodations at the La Tuna in Granada provided, free of
charge, the ideal language immersion opportunity. It turned out
that I had, courtesy of my disabled guide, been settled in a pension
which sheltered a few out-of-town university students and substantial
number of women who were the mistresses of wealthy local businessmen
and prominent regional officials in the then-expansive provincial
bureaucracy which endured thanks to the outcome of Spain's recent
civil war.
Even
as late as the nineteen-fifties Spain, and Andalucia in particular,
had no middle class. Under the protection of Franco and the Catholic
Church, Spain had stayed close to its feudal roots. The result
was that on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada, where the cacique
system still reigned, if an unmarried woman became pregnant and
was unable to arrange a hurried marriage, she was forced to leave
her village and seek shelter in the city. As there were few jobs
for single women, many of these new immigrants were forced to
resort to some form of prostitution in order to survive. The best
possible situation was to become the mistress of some rich well-placed
business owner or government official who would provide support
for both the mother and her infant.
Women
in this situation formed the majority of the residents at La Tuna.
As they had little to do except during siesta, that mid-day time
business closing time which lasted far longer in Spain than in
any other European country, the chicas of the pensión spent most
of their time gathered around the communal dining table cuddling
their infants, knitting, sewing, and otherwise passing the time
in leisure activities. It was with delight that they helped me
find words to tell them about "América", and with good humor that
they nick-named me "El Indio" because, finding it difficult to
conjugate verbs, I often resorted to the infinitive, the result
being that my sentences reminded them of the speech of the Hollywood
Indians in the imported and dubbed westerns which were standard
fare at local theaters.
Four
to six hours a day of informal conversation soon gave me proficiency
in Spanish. At the same time I had ventured forth in search of
music. Through the good offices of Sr. Peña, a flamenco aficionado
whose two sons were guitarists working in France, I was introduced
to the musicians of Granada. A chance encounter with a newspaper
reporter for the daily La Patria gave me the opportunity to publicly
declare my admiration for the music and culture of Andalucia and
I was made welcome by many in the gypsy and non-gypsy communities
alike.
My
ability to converse with English-speaking tourists was recognized
as an asset by the gypsies of the Sacromonte and provided entrée
to the cuevas where performances were given. As my musicianship
improved, I was more and more often invited to join in the festivities.
Of course, I was not a "verdadero" flamenco, but eventually, when
I limited my thought processes to Spanish, I came to think like
one.
Thanks to the generosity of one of the highly-placed male visitors
to La Tuna (who made me promise never to reveal his name) I was
introduced to Manuel Cano, one of Spain's great guitarists. Befriending
me, Manuel not only taught me invaluable techniques and music,
he also "sold"1 me a fine Sobrinos de Esteso guitar which opened
new doors. Almost any guitarist was willing to teach me a few
falsetas in exchange for the opportunity to play this fine instrument.
My abilities as a guitarist improved rapidly.
I traveled northward with my new instrument. In Barcelona I rubbed
shoulders with the great classical guitarist Narcisso Ypes, visited
the workshop of the great guitarmakers the Fleta brothers, and
was invited to perform on Radio Nacional de España. I attended
illegal gatherings of Catalan poets (the Catalan language was
outlawed by the Franco regime) and illegal gatherings of Quakers
(non-Catholic religions were forbidden as well). In Barcelona
I learned the Zorongo Gitano, a combination of Siguryas and Tientos
which I never heard played elsewhere and stayed up till dawn in
the gypsy camps on the outskirts of the city.
I
abhorred the oppression and lack of freedom in Spain but when
the Sixth Fleet of the U.S. Navy visited Barcelona I was so embarrassed
by the behavior of my countrymen that I vowed never to return
to the States again. I became more committed than ever to integrating
myself into the flamenco community.
I
visited the U.S. consulate and had my passport amended to include
the stage name "Juan Moreno." In reviewing copies of some of my
letters written in Europe, I find that I sometimes added an "X"
as a middle initial. The "X" might have stood for Xavier or Ximenez,
except that I never used either of those names.
A misconceived trip to the Côte D'Azure in France in search of
a fellow expatriate who had prematurely departed for Germany left
me playing guitar with some real gypsies in a restaurant in Nice.
Then I wandered to Marseilles where I found a job playing in a
bar that soon became too dangerous for comfort. Good jobs were
hard to find in France if one did not have the appropriate papers
so for a while I sought anonimity crewing on various craft the
plied the coast. Then Paris and on to London. Then back to New
York. Then, after about a year, back to Europe again. It seemed
that every major city had its flamenco contingent and I found
my way to it.
So it was for a number of years. I sold or gave away my books,
avoided speaking English, and used my birth name only when necessary
on legal documents. Wearing a sombrero cordobés and dressed in
chaqueta corta, faja, and botas flamencas, I accompanied dancers
and singers, performed as a soloist, and immersed myself in la
vida flamenca both on-stage and off.
One of my proudest moments might have been when, after my guitar
solo in a performance at Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto, the entire
Toronto Symphony Orchestra rose to applaud. I do not know if they
would have been less enthusiastic if they had known that I was
not the Spanish gypsy they perceived me to be but, for me, the
thought of that possibility robbed the evening of much of its
pleasure.
The reasons for which I eventually abandoned the world of flamenco,
though here hinted at, must await another telling. Suffice it
to say that when I said good-bye to Juan Moreno, it was with
the finality of a bitter divorce. Thus it is that the works
in this series and the process of their creation are, for me,
a gesture of personal reconciliation.
- Jonathan Talbot, 1998
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