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The Flamenco Kid


I wasn't drawn to take flamenco dance classes by the promise of wearing a richly colored skirt with a ruffled train. It wasn't the hope of skillfully playing the castanets or the beautiful agony of the singer's cry. Although the layered rhythms of the Spanish guitar still transfix me, that wasn't what compelled me to find an instructor once I returned from Seville, where I first witnessed flamenco. What was and to this day remains ingrained in my mind is the impenetrable look on the dancer's face as she gestured with a graceful force I'd never seen before—equal parts happiness and sorrow. Her furrowed brow revealed more to me about the complexities of life than anything else I've experienced. And it is what keeps me going back for more.
— Tari Ayala

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