La Farruca probably exploits more completely than any of its fellows the varied resources of the Flamenco. After one becomes accustomed to it sufficiently to be able to dominate one’s own delight and astonishment, one may look at it as a study of contrasts, carried to the nth power. Now the performers advance with undulation so slow, so subtle, that the Saracenic coquetry of liquid arms and feline body is less seen than felt. Mystery of movement envelops their bodies like twilight. Of this perhaps eight measures, when—crash! Prestissimo! Like Gatling-fire the volley of heel-tapping. The movements have become the eye-baffling darting of swallows. No preparation for the change, no crescendo nor accelerando; in the matter of abruptness one is reminded of some of the effects familiar in the playing of Hungarian orchestras.
Another use of contrast produces a sensation not unlike the surprise you get when, in the course of drinking one of those warm concoctions of sweetened claret, you unexpectedly bite a piece of cinnamon, and during a few seconds taste vividly the contradictory flavours of both spice and sweetness. The music is moving in a flowing legato. In counter-time to the notes is a staccato of crisp taps—of light, “snappy” hand-claps, and dry-sounding sole-taps on the floor, two varieties of accent alternating one with the other. Success of the effect depends on the very perfection of tempo, to begin with, and after that on a command of the quality of sound in the taps. A good deal of attention is given to the cleanness and brilliancy of the tone of these notes, as well as the cultivation of a good sparkling “tak” in snapping the fingers. Many performers carry in each hand a series of three ringing finger-snaps, loud enough to carry sharply to the back of their smallish theatres.
It is in respect to finesse of such details that most non-Spaniards condemn themselves to the mediocre when they attempt Spanish dancing. The mere steps can be learned by any one with an intelligence and two sound legs. Many students approximate the style. But the seemingly little things often act as the big pit-falls. The castanets, for instance, expose cruelly the lack of finish of many a pretender to laurels in the Spanish field; in the hands of their master they can ring, or sing, or click, or purr, as the mood of the dance suggests. To an amateur it would be illuminating to see the care a professional exercises in mating the little instruments in pairs. They vary in pitch, and have almost personal whims. For instance, in cold weather they fail to do themselves justice unless they are carried to the performance in an inside pocket. But this is straying from the Flamenco; castanets are in the main an adjunct of the Classic.
Returning to the subject of contrasts, the Flamenco, more than any other style in the world, perhaps, insists on difference between the work of man and woman. It is seen in the greater relaxation of the woman’s body, the more complete elimination of angles from her movements. The degree of rigidity that the man’s body should maintain is a point of justifiable difference between artists; so with the extent to which his movements should follow the lines of curves. But that curve should be the theme controlling the woman’s movement and carriage, all agree. The result is to the eye as a duet of guitar and flute is to the ear. Following the comparison further, the dance duet does not confine itself to unison—identical movements of the two performers—any more than does the duet of music; and this correlation of two harmonised parts is not the least of the causes of madness imparted to spectators of good dancing.
In all dances evolved to the plane of art, a common device is to end a phrase with a turn—a pirouette, or something simpler, according to the character of the work. This general rule the Spanish follow. But look how the Farruca makes such a turn the opportunity for one of its myriad contrasts!
The renversé of the ballet has a kindred turn in la vuelta quebrada. Both are executed with an arm always extended, so as to describe the maximum circle; of the vuelta quebrada the movement is low and horizontal, with everything done in such a way as to give the impression of a smooth, oily roll. The Farruca leads the woman up to this turn, or vuelta, through a series of short steps. Now visualise the man’s part at the same time: as the woman enters her flowing vuelta, a mighty leap lands the man in the position of stooping; instantly he starts rising with a spiral movement that takes the form of a pirouette and so continues through the circle. The surprise the eye receives from the harmonised contrast between the extended horizontally moving sweep and the vertical spiral uplift, with its kaleidoscopic change of levels, seems never to grow less. And if the man makes it a double pirouette instead of a single, why, one simply shouts aloud with the joyous discovery that the law of gravitation and a lot of other cumbersome things have suddenly been abolished.
The Tango at the present moment familiar in North
