In a small, simple room in Bushwick, hastily disassembled from its inauthentic aesthetic to prepare for our presence, a master of flamenco tunes his weathered guitar. To his left sits a paragon of precision, an artist whose Baroque mechanics on the classical guitar are rarely seen. Strangers before they met through their music, they now communicate across recursive generations.
Philippe Mouratoglou, student of the compositions of Isaaz Albéniz, a composer who based his “Rumores de la Caleta” on the music of the guitarists who taught Pedro, now the lone figure who can legitimately reproduce the sound of those fading voices. I follow to them, Leslie Kraus, a shifting force of the NYC contemporary dance community, a woman whose technique is formidable and matched only by her awareness of sight and sound.
Pedro’s music serves as the foundation, the keystone of the structure. Through Philippe, the song is given an outward growth, a fractal unfolding as branches and roots spring forth from between the bricks. Lesley’s movement, at once sympathetic and oppositional to the notes, begins to connect the form to the surface, giving stone and firmament a ground within which to live.
The camera, witnessing all of this, performs its meagre best to capture the spontaneous unfolding, its failures inviting the audience to commit to their own work, entering into the dance and connection the loop back to its source, the stirring beauty of the flamenco.