The Spanish Dancer

Her name is Prismatica and she's a Spanish dancer. Medium: Ink, oil, oil pastel on board

Comments

[javelin]

this is one of my all time favorites! the way your hues bounce and bleed makes my eyes drool.

[ChaosbyDesign]

Beautiful movement...and of course I recognize Prismatica

[midevil]

Gorgeous! The movement is fantastic!

[Twopotatothreepotato]

The sand encrusting the window lent an antiquated beige tinge to the sunlight filtering in, and it bronzed Prismatica's skin even more pronouncedly than usual as she entered the hallway. Castanets signaled her arrival, their rhythmic clack and clatter interweaving with the sound of her black high-heels.
Then Chano's acoustic guitar thundered to life. The boy was only eighteen but played with the authority of a man thrice his age. He strummed the metal strings so hard they sounded like telephone wires caught in a tornado, carrying a melody at once brutal, earthily sensual, and divine. Two young girls in green peasant dresses clapped in time to the stutter of the castanets and the slash of the melody. Their eyes sparkled in the beige light, knowing smiles placidly dancing across their features.
And Prismatica danced.
Her body bobbed and wove gracefully on the pulsing notes Chano plucked and strummed out. The crowd of locals just outside the studio window stomped in syncopation to the claps and castanets, and Prismatica smiled: She could see them become mesmerized as she moved, and she could feel the stares of worship from the men among their number. The intensity of her spins, footfalls, and arabesques built, and soon the cheeks on her olive-tinted face were flushed with exertion. The dancing girl's raven-black hair encircled her head: Her low-cut scarlet blouse billowed like a cluster of storm clouds enslaved by the sunset.
The boy's voice began spiking its way along the melody of his guitar as Prismatica continued her Dance. He sang one line, over and over in reedy tenor notes as sharp and short as the castanets that tapped out the tempo:

"No hay pasado, sólo hay ahora, mi amor bailando…"

Chano's mantra seemed to spark something in the dancer, and Prismatica's steps and movements grew even more fevered. Finally the boy's playing began to decrescendo, quieting even as the rhythms of castanets, handclaps, and stomps retained their forcefulness. The dancing girl's attentions then turned from the audience beyond the sand-crystalized glass to the guitar player to her right.

Prismatica moved, languidly but no less elegantly, towards Chano. He continued to sing his single sentence, and it was obvious that her steps were in strict time to his voice. Then before Chano could chant out the line a fifteenth time, Prismatica leaned in and stole a long, impassioned kiss from the boy. His playing continued, regaining its loudness as her hips moved in time and her slender hands encircled his neck. Then she broke away from him with a fierce shrug and an insouciantly sensual smile.

Chano strode after her. The pinging arpeggios he plucked on his guitar sounded like the rapid-fire cries of some unearthly, impassioned bird of prey. All eyes peering through the window followed Prismatica's swaying hips and deftly-tapping heels as she turned to face the glass. Her graceful feet carried her like a figure possessed, closer to the window.

She stopped just inches from the pane, and Chano edged directly behind her, his feverish playing unabated. Prismatica's head tipped back, resting precariously on the boy's shoulder: her feet kept moving in time with his melody. Then he leaned into her neck, kissing her forcefully on her tanned throat.

The dancer's eyes rolled up 'neath their lids as though sensual spirits possessed her, and she suddenly dropped to her knees. Chano and the current of rhythm that accompanied him stopped on cue as Prismatica fell.

Three dozen eyes stared in wonder, and the eighteen mouths tethered to them lay silent and awestruck.