Saturday, January 2, 2016


Lorca writes: "The duende, then, is a power, not a work. 
It is a struggle, not a thought. 
I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 
'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' 

Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation.”.

 He suggests, "everything that has black sounds in it, has duende. [i.e. emotional 'darkness'] [...] 

This 'mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains' is, in sum, the spirit of the earth, 
the same duende 
that scorched the heart of Nietzsche, 
who searched in vain for its external forms on the Rialto Bridge and in the music of Bizet, 
without knowing that the duende 
he was pursuing had leaped straight from the Greek mysteries 
to the dancers of Cadiz or the beheaded, 
Dionysian scream of Silverio's siguiriya." [...] 

"The duende's arrival always means a radical change in forms. 
It brings to old planes unknown feelings of freshness, 
with the quality of something newly created, 
like a miracle, 
and it produces an almost religious enthusiasm." [...] “

All arts are capable of duende, 
but where it finds greatest range, 
naturally, is in music, dance, and spoken poetry, 
for these arts require a living body to interpret them, 
being forms that are born, die, and open their contours against an exact present.

García Lorca, Federico; Maurer, Christopher (Ed.) (1998) In Search of Duende. New Directions ISBN 0-8112-1376-5

THE ABOVE words were taken from Wikipedia. They are not my own. The word has captivated me. I believe every energy is connected...we ALL are capable of "duende"...It is a lovely word, isn't it? Art for me, is a miracle. I am writing everything now with purpose.
My art, is designed with "Duende" in mind. The sacred geometry swirls and spins and whirls through me...I am dancing in duende.

Original- poetry..inspired by the word...

She danced across the word. 
The feather of it twirling to the music of her soul.
She couldn’t resist dancing with the feather.

The white feather suspended magically
It tickled her shoulder
She rotated and played her shoulder 
forward and back

The feather tickled her belly button
She laughed and danced to the feathers rhythm
Her hips rolling inward and back

The feather twirled upon her knees
She kicked up her knees 
Swirling in her flamenco world

The magical feather had given her
Back to herself
She danced and laughed
Not caring at all if she had a partner

The wind that carried the feather to her
Loved her enough to know
The purest Love is the dance of art.

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