Paco Pena is in town again. It’s been a year since I last saw one of his flamenco shows in London. Everyone talks about the meaning of his titles (this time, ‘Patria’ – motherland) and what his virtuoso musicians and dancers so passionately convey. Everything is meant to tell us something, from floor-stamping feet to sober poses and screaming guitars. But what flamenco is all about – it seems to me – is none of these; rather, it is what is held back, the shadows behind downcast gazes. The pause. That is where the real drama begins.
There is no shortage of inspiration for philosophers in Milan, especially those interested in elements of praxis. What I was not expecting is the spiritual focus of their fashion philosophy. It makes me wonder if it is mostly pacific angels like Gabriel, or warriors like Michael one would be more likely to encounter there, and what kind of messages they might bring. Corso Buenos Aires is a surprising place for such encounters between two worlds, but then again, God’s ways are different from ours.
The father goes to the market to buy some pears. He returns with some cheese. He also brings flowers for the mother, which end up in a beautiful vase with no water in. The father eats a slice of cake, which the daughter prepared the night before – a pear and chocolate cake. The pears got sliced and topped up with some cream – all buried deep inside the heart of the cake. That’s why the father couldn’t find any left at the market. They were all gone, lost between sweet layers of memory. That’s how time flies, taking our selves with it.
The head office of the local secret police was based in this building in the early years of the communist regime. In the cellar and what used to be the cells behind these walls, dissidents and members of the opposition were tortured, killed, or convicted to long years of suffering. Unlike them, the building survived.