Flamenco artist Manuel Liñán shook up stages worldwide with 2019’s ¡Viva! In it, he danced in a bata de cola (ruffled-train dress) and mantón (fringed shawl) amid similarly clad men, all excellent at heel work and floreo (hand flourishes) that are traditionally reserved for women. That wit and grit has characterized Liñán’s career for over two decades. An exacting stylist eager to explore beyond technical and conceptual borders, the performer-choreographer-director turns more pensive in his recent Muerta de Amor (Dying of Love), which opens Flamenco Festival Miami XVI at the Adrienne Arsht Center for the Performing Arts, March 5, before moving on to New York City Center March 7. As the U.S. debut of the evening-length work drew near, Liñán spoke with Dance Magazine in Spanish from his native Granada, Spain, about this intensely personal artistic statement.
Tell me about the title dead love.
Colloquially the phrase acknowledges—in a hyperbolic way—how strongly you feel the pleasure of something you’ve experienced. I use the feminine form because that’s more intimate to me, and I sometimes refer to myself that way. But it connects with a question that’s intrigued me for a long time: What is love? My work is a search and not an answer, and becomes a celebration as my relationships with men emerge—what they’ve imprinted on my body, how that’s translated in my dance.
Manuel Liñán’s Muerta of Love. Photo by Marcos G. point, courarenne arsht center for the information arts.
Has that been present in previous works?
Absolutely. Every work contains what your body carries into it. But here I explicitly dance to the emotions relationships elicit, whether affectionate or toxic. Did love leave me with a taste of seduction? Or was it platonic? Desire fires me up creatively. I’ve sometimes exaggerated the nature of my relationships, even invented parts of them, because of that need to feel alive.
Did you start with a complete vision?
No, this came about step by step. I first chose the interpreters, who had to have an alluring presence. And I wanted them to sing. I started with improvisations alongside José Maldonado, a cast member who also choreographs. The work came to include elements like microphones, which give us a voice, adding power to expression.
Manuel Liñán’s Muerta of Love. Photo by Marcos G. point, courarenne arsht center for the information arts.
With four accompanists, including guitarist Francisco Vinuesa, contributing an original score, what characterizes the music?
It draws from the copla, a popular Spanish genre. Coplas sing out about love in a very dramatic manner. They’ve been on my soundtrack since childhood. We perform them flamenco style—for instance, in bulerías and soleás (festive and woeful flamenco dance rhythms, respectively). The copla sometimes has a disguised gay message, the lyrics addressed from one man to another, and I’ve used a couple of those, though their power is not just for the initiated.
Does dead love have plot?
Not specifically, but there are several dramatic lines running through it. These come from my personal experiences, but I believe such love situations have happened to most of us one time or another.
Are there women in the cast?
One, and she’s the Great Woman, the Muse, the cantaora who lights the fires, portrayed by Mara Rey, an artist of incredible force. Her singing is acutely personal, yet she stirs up the action around her.
Manuel Liñán’s Muerta of Love. Photo by Marcos G. point, courarenne arsht center for the information arts.
What has been the greatest challenge in your journey?
Bringing ¡Viva! to the stage, appearing in a bata de cola and a wig. I was already 38 years old then. It took me that long to validate my desire to dance dressed as a woman—to make sure that it wouldn’t be frivolous or passing but remain part of my theater. It had to be transcendent. I started dressing up in women’s clothes in secret when I was 8. If there was a costume party and I put on my mother’s clothes, people laughed at me, making me feel I was doing something wrong. I sidelined that desire until one day I said: “Enough. This is who I am, what I want, and I no longer feel like hiding it.”
Has the situation changed for young men who want to dance as a bailaora today?
Luckily, yes. When I first tried to learn the technique of dancing in a bata de cola, I was told it wasn’t allowed for men. Now they can study that side of our art form in conservatories.
And you’ve contributed to that.
I consider it my number-one reward. My greatest joy would be that no boy ever feels the fear I felt dressing up as a woman. That would be the real change.
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