For some, the man who can dance is a hero. As he dances he commands. Here he is taking the floor. There is ritual and history in the patterns of his motion and the rhythm and flow of guitar and the audience clapping and calling out. But every Flamenco dancer tells his own brief story of his own brief life, rising above tragedy and mortality. In this painting we do not see the face. Yet the character of the dancer projects itself through his stance, his step, his stomping, the flourish of the raised hand ... which seems to hold a brush ... signing his name in the journal of the gods. They smile at each other.
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For some, the man who can dance is a hero. As he dances he commands. Here he is taking the floor. There is ritual and history in the patterns of his motion and the rhythm and flow of guitar and the audience clapping and calling out. But every Flamenco dancer tells his own brief story of his own brief life, rising above tragedy and mortality. In this painting we do not see the face. Yet the character of the dancer projects itself through his stance, his step, his stomping, the flourish of the raised hand ... which seems to hold a brush ... signing his name in the journal of the gods. They smile at each other.
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