Historic interview with Pastora Imperio,
flamenco bailaora
“I’d like to be always
roving,
following my gypsy caravan”
Flamenco-world.com, January 2008
Literal transcription from
the magazine ‘Por esos mundos’
in Madrid. Interview signed by Duende and
published on June 1st, 1913
|
|
WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE LIKED TO BE? WHAT
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE?
This personal, up-close question, absolutely
confidential in most cases, has stopped being a secret
thanks to the skill of the top Spanish reporter. Especially
for POR ESOS MUNDOS, the controversial Duende has made
a very interesting enquiry which we offer to readers.
Julia Fons.- Chairman of the
Council of Ministers.- The Countess of Pardo Bazán.-
“El Gallo”.- Pastora Imperio.- Benavente.-
María Guerrero.- Fernando Díaz de Mendoza.-
“La Fornarina”.- Sorolla
______________________________________________________________
Pastora Imperio
(Photo Alonso, Nuevo Mundo) |
|
Pastora
Imperio
The Sevillian dancer was in Barcelona.
My affairs didn’t allow me to make the trip, as
I would have liked.
And I decided to consult with the green-eyed
artist over the phone.
It rang.
-Barcelona, speaking! - an employee said.
And Pastora Imperio’s nice voice
asked:
-Duende?
-Pastora?-I asked.
-What do you want from me?
-First, to say hello to you.
-Thank you very much!...
-Are you working in Barcelona now?
-Yes, Duende; here I am dancing garrotines...
-Of course! The audience must like you very much, like
everywhere...
-They applaud me a lot... The audience is really affectionate
with me; every night I have to dance three or four things
for them.
-And what do the crowds like the most, in view of everything
you’ve worked on?
-The garrotín.
-Will you return to Madrid soon?
-Yes, in July; to Romea.
-What about America?
-I have a lot of offers; but I’m really afraid of
the sea...
-Well now, Pastora; and you, what would you like to
be? What would you have liked to be?...
-What do you mean, Duende?
-If you weren’t the popular dancer Pastora Imperio,
what would you like to be? What would you have liked
to be?...
A pause.
-Pastora!...-I say, thinking the line’s been cut
off. Pastora!...
-Duende!...
-Did you hear me?
-Yes...
-I thought we’d been cut off...
-No, it’s just that...
Another pause.
| |
Pastora Imperio, Nuevo
Mundo |
-Duende!- Pastora tells me with
a vibrant voice.
-Pastora!
-If I weren’t the dancer Pastora Imperio today,
do you know what I’d like to be?
-No...
-Well, I’d like for nobody to notice me, for nobody
to pay attention to me, for nobody to talk about me; I’d
like to go through life unnoticed... I’d like to
be always roving, following my gypsy caravan...
Silence.
-Pastora!...
-Did you hear?- Pastora asks me.
-Yes.
-Well that’s what I’d like to be, and better
yet, that’s what I’d like to have been, and
if you want it clearer, that’s what should have
been...
-What you’re telling me is really picturesque...
-Well that’s the way I feel it, Duende,
I swear it...
And over the phone I hear the smack of a kiss which Pastora
surely gave to the cross her fingers were holding to formalize
her gypsy oath.
Afterwards I hear a sigh and to cheer up the beautiful
dancer, I exclaim:
-Did you know I’ve just come back from Seville?
-Yeah?... You’ve been to my hometown?...
-Yeah; and I bet you don’t know who I talked to
there?...
-Who?...
- Rafael...
- Rafael?
-Yeah; “El Gallo”... your husband...
-How is he?...
-Good, I saw him in his garden.
-Were you in the garden?
-Yeah; I spent an afternoon with him there...
-Tell me, Duende and... A hoarse, resounding voice exclaims:
-It’s over!...
And I no longer hear Pastora’s voice.
______________________________________________________________
Pastora Imperio, Nuevo Mundo
Strange! Over the phone I heard the dancer’s
funny voice with her typical Andalusian lisp.
And I thought of her enigmatic, sphinx-like, sibyl-like,
grayish-green eyes...
And upon hanging up the telephone receiver, I saw the
statuesque figure of the dancer rising up on stage, hunched
up like a cat, clacking the castanets, with musical rhythm...
twisting with strange elasticity in the hieratic quivering
of a sacred dancer, mixed with the inflaming sensual throbbing
of Greek dancing engraved in Moorish swinging...
Pastora Imperio, triumphant, had achieved her success
through the strict delicacy of her esthetic surface; the
feline flexibility of her body, which didn’t seem
to have any bones; the correctness of the lines throughout
her figure, the native art which drove her natural movements,
which upon twisting her arm sketched a delightful figure;
her mouth, fresh, her eyes, green...
And recalling her words I saw her, roving, in the sunshine
on the road, all along the way; in the tents of the encampment;
unknown, forgotten, insignificant; with her brightly-colored
skirt, her coral back combs buried in the curls of her
ebony hair... dancing, during a break in the march, amidst
the gypsies of the caravan... without the audience’s
applause!... without the brilliance of glory!... without
the lights and music and sequins!...
Happy?... Who knows! In her gypsy caravan, she’d
always be Pastora... but without Imperio (an Empire).
