Flamenco guitar

“Hay que dejar las uñas crecer…” my guitar teacher told me. I had to let my finger nails grow out long in order to get the right flamenco sound. I’d only been in Spain for a few weeks, but I was already trying to pick up flamenco guitar. It was September and I was going to be there until May, studying in the northern city of Zaragoza with about 60 other Americans through a program called School Year Abroad, or more fondly SYA. Playing guitar was one of the aspects of my year in Spain I’d looked forward to the most the summer before I’d left. I spent that summer crestfallen, shy, and bed ridden with a crippling cross country injury that resulted in two surgeries. There was no way that I could really play without growing abnormally long fingernails, which was the topic of much humorous discussion throughout the year as people came to realize why I kept my nails so long. I wasn’t completely crazy– I was just trying to fully immerse myself in Spanish culture and pursue an old dream.

After a few months of playing the guitar, I decided that it would be appropriate to buy an authentic Spanish guitar– one made in a shop saturated with the warm smell of pine and cyprus and assembled by the gnarled hands of an Andalusian craftsman rather than motor operated stainless steel claws. I decided that I would pick up a real Spanish guitar in Andalusia over spring break when my parents came to visit. It was in Cordoba where I found my guitar in a little pine-smelling workshop; it was in the old part of town across the street from the crumbling ruins of an old Roman temple. We stumbled upon the guitar shop by complete chance and ambled in to meet Jose Rodriguez, a veteran guitar craftsman. I asked about a real handmade guitar. I was interested in one made completely from scratch with wood taken from old furniture in an Andalusian farmhouse still musty with memories of an old civil war; a house that’s surely bullet-riddled and standing high up on a lonesome plain near some field where a young international brigade soldier died in a heroic and hopeless charge– just like Hemingway would have pictured. It turned out that getting a real handmade guitar was a hope more romantic than realistic. The sound was rich and beautiful and thoroughly Spanish, but the 9,000 Euro price tag was far less attractive. A handmade guitar was out of the question, and I had to choose something else. I still walked out of the workshop thoroughly pleased, carrying a little cyprus guitar made in a family run factory in Catalonia.

Interior, La Mezquita de Córdoba. One of the last great mosques in the Western world.

Like always, there was a talent show at the end of the year. I was expected to showcase what I’d learned just like anyone else who had picked up an artistic and/or cultural activity during the year. I trembled at the thought of performing, but I still prepared a repertoire of traditional flamenco songs. The problem with performing flamenco guitar is that dexterity is everything, and it also just so happens to be the first thing that nervousness kills. I wish I could say that my first performance went well, but I considered it a disaster. My hands were shaking too badly to do anything convincing, and my fingers where too sweaty to stay in one place for any period of time. I stepped down from the stage dejected, and although everyone seemed sincere congratulating me afterwards I still felt that I’d played pretty poorly. Although the set hadn’t gone too well in my opinion, everyone else seemed to have enjoyed it, and it opened my eyes to a truth that shined through and blasted away my shyness. I realized that the only way for me to ever improve was to put myself on the spot and learn to play despite nerves. I’ve been learning to put myself on the spot ever since, not only with the guitar but in every walk of life. That’s the only way to live; to leave the comfort zone, experience anxiety in the spotlight, and aggressively pursue any opportunity to learn through experience. I still play flamenco and love it for what it is. However, I’ll never forget what playing classical guitar did for me; it helped me come out of my shell and recognize the importance of aggressively pursuing experiences that will leave me with a greater understanding of the world around me and how to handle the problems that pop up in life. Nervousness doesn’t bother me so much anymore, and I would never have been liberated from it if I hadn’t had that one botched performance in front of 60 people in Zaragoza, Spain.

The Alhambra, Granada. The Alhambra has served as the inspiration for many famous flamenco songs.