Federico Garcia Lorca was one of the reasons why I broke my travel virginity and journeyed to Southern Spain.
The Duende … the gipsy spirit of passion and celebration… a sensual and instinctive translation of what it means to be alive. My curiosity alive I ran to the hills and expected to find wonder.
The hills were a little too large, the wonder, overwhelming and I fled back to the dismal city of my birth.
Lorca, born in this place, yet fashioned by his differences; a homosexual, a challenger to the fascists, a gipsy poet and flag of freedom. He was executed by firing squad for having a voice.
I have a voice… I believe I can hear the wind of the Duende, and I am lucky to live in a time where challenge is not so obvious.
The only real challenge is ignorance and the insidious attempt by corporations and government to thwart creative thinking and the vitality that art instills in culture.
In a way, we are all being executed, but quietly and without resistance.