Duende is a very
profound idea at the heart of a very serious artform—
Flamenco.
The world knows and well-recognizes the particular sights and sounds of this
Andalusian gypsy music—the thrumming
guitar, the swirling
skirt and percussive feet, the unearthly vocalization of life's heights and depths.
But there is Something More within the performance: The
Reason. The
Soul. The
Spirit. The Unspeakable. The Barely Thinkable.
Duende
Gypsies being gypsies, they'll put us
payos off the scent by never mentioning the term.
If pressed—and if they are in the mood—they may translate
duende as "the elf, " as if the unknowable unspeakable soul of their great art were kin to
Don Juan's Mescalito and might be found on an accidental visit to a magician's campfire.
But to know
duende we must not seek it.
To find
duende we dare not speak it.
One night in
Spain—with the last of the wine on our lips and the dancer too tired to smile, right before the stars are gone and the sun is come—we just won't care any more. The singer may barely moan the verse
por soleares. Or the
guitar will weep
por siguiriyas. An 80 year-old great grandmother will tilt her head and be once again sixteen.
And Duende will find us.
And we will know because the hair on the back of our neck will rise.
And we will know.