Photography
…by Natasha
It was time to leave the bar.
The hour was close to midnight.
We started to realize that the promised flamenco would not take place.
Or, maybe, we ourselves were confused, now we can’t remember on which street is this warren – Seville, we saw the ad.
The semi-dark bar room was almost empty. My friend and I, another couple and no one else.
– Fanny, let’s go, it’s so late, we shall be in Cordoba tomorrow morning, – I pleaded.
– Wait, – I’ll ask the waiter again.
“Si, si flamenco si !,” the waiter replied, nodding vigorously, looking too cheerful for such a late hour.
Suddenly, at half past twelve, a couple entered – a girl and a guy – talking loudly between them. The guy had a huge guitar-shaped case behind him. This made him look like a huge turtle with its shell turned upside down. The two sat down at the bar after hugging the waiter, who immediately poured a small glass for each of them. Then, they went to a table in the corner, where the guy began to slowly take out his guitar.
To our amazement, visitors began to appear and very quickly almost all tables were occupied.
The girl began very carefully and at first very quietly, as if in a whisper, to beat some complex rhythm with her palms. The guitarist walked over the strings. His face was not visible. Long, shiny black waves of hair obscured his profile.
The girl began to sing … or rather, she began to emit ornate quiet sounds … Then her voice started to sound more powerful, it got stronger, a surprising mismatch with her fragile physique.
Gradually, the singing developed into volcanic explosions. Her soul was bursting out of her body, she seemed to be trying to keep it inside, pressing her arms to her chest…. It looked like self-immolation!
All present froze, pushing away the plates of food, only sipping wine from time to time in order to somehow cope with emotions.
The rhythm sounded incomprehensible: it caressed the soul, and then tore it apart, plunging a knife to the hilt!
What was happening could not be called singing – it was either a cry for help, or anger … or an oath to love. Always…
Contrary to expectations, the singing ended at the highest point of incandescence, after which the bar burst into applause!
Stunned by the experience, we went to the embankment.
The Guadalquivir was silvery in the early dawn light. We walked in silence.
The dampness of the cobbled narrow streets still reflected off the yellow lanterns.
At night, Seville seemed as beautiful as she was during the day. Falling asleep, without taking off her festive dress, she was ready to meet a new day, as a reason for celebration, for joy, for radiance in all her centuries-old glory.
But, at the same time, she made it possible to cool down one’s passions, beckoning with the coolness of her Andalusian patios, lined with multi-colored ceramic tiles, where spreading flowers in huge marble vases and the barely audible murmur of fountains give peace and tranquility in anxious anticipation of future encounters.
This is Natasha’s story of Seville through a collection of powerful photographs that search for its hidden soul.
Left Brain Artists 