I can still remember the first time I saw him dance. Flamenco is a haunting dance where total control and total abandonment live side by side in impossible proximity. I had been spoilt for years with the privilege of seeing the very best dancers the country had to offer, but despite all that, with a few steps only he had me bound and tied to his every move.
After the show I declined all invitations, rushing back to my studio where I began to work away night after night, wrestling my brushes, pushing my own hands to the point of despair and eventually, unconditional surrender.
Over the course of the weeks and months, as I was - painfully at times - stalking the truth of my vision, some of the urgency faded, made room for a more gentle approach, as it allowed the softer, subtler aspects of my fascination to find shape on the canvas. Surely no one could dance like this. It was not just the fact that he seemed to defy gravity; many dancers could make it appear like that. With him, there was more, but I could not put my finger on what it was.
It felt like a power that every now and then I thought I had caught a faint glimpse of, thought I might have seen it materialised somewhere in the shapes of his legs, the angles of his arms perhaps, the line of his back. His beauty was not just physical, it was like crystallised spirit, and my hope, my obsession was to instil this unusual, pure quality into my every brush stroke.His picture had taken hold of my mind and my time as no one and nothing had done before. I went to watch him again and again, studied him like an ancient mystery, never letting go, never giving up. I was quite used to the experience of risking my peace of mind, my sanity with this uncompromising approach; neither did it come as a big surprise that I was getting myself into trouble for my relentless searching.
Maybe he felt my scrutinising eyes, my reckless advance, feared that I might uncover the innermost secrets of his soul. Perhaps he felt invaded, trespassed. I will never know. I could only gather from his unspoken but rude I behaviour that he was angry. I had to let go and I did, but not before I was reasonably satisfied with my efforts.
When finally I turned away in a strange mixture of heartbreak and relief I was surprised by a new, unexpected sight that had hitherto escaped me – that of the women at the fiestas. They were old, most of them, but the fact carried no weight. The way they moved and swayed, the mere clapping of their hands was true poetry, but poetry that would be have to be simultaneously whispered and screamed.
This time I could not even wait until I was home again. I took out my pencils and started sketching straight away, filling sheet upon sheet. For once it was not the impressive muscular curves of my youthful Adonis, but the withering faces and eternal glow of those ageing women who had lived long and hard, who were letting their lives and their passion flow out onto the dance floor, as if trying to emboss their feelings into the red tiles through their simple, hard-heeled shoes. Ignacio’s breathtaking, erotic stance, his well-shaped golden arms, delicious as freshly baked bread, were all of a sudden replaced by limbs almost three times his age but in no way inferior in beauty and meaning. It was a completely different beauty, true, but just as fascinating, just as haunting to the eye that was willing to take the time to see. I stood gasping and painted, painted.
And they danced …