There is a kind of flamenco that grows not from tradition alone but from moving through life—the cracked concrete, the humid air, the streets and rooms that hold memory. Mine was born in the restless body of a boy who learned to turn ache into art, sweat into rhythm. I have followed the echoes of generations of dancers, singers, and guitarists, letting their movements, their compás, their devotion guide my own. Each heel strike carries the ghosts of those who came before, of the palms and pavements that shaped me. My flamenco is not inherited—it is conjured, rebuilt, claimed. It smells of musk and magnolia, tastes of honey and heat, and lives somewhere between devotion and defiance.
“Shadows and Secret… When I love, I love in darkness; when I suffer, I suffer in quiet. I am a creature of the night. My stories are written in the witching hour, in the hushed whispers of leaves and the chirps of crickets, in dimly lit dance floors, dark rooms, and the vascularity of the subway…” — Hans
Night Creatures is a love letter to the men I have coiled my body around, my love-hate relationship with New York, and the ongoing dialogue with my flamenco practice. It is a vespertine exploration of sexuality—from moonrise to sunrise—and of the hunger, yearning, and fear of loving and lusting after other male bodies. Technically, the work experiments with electronic composition, MIDI, and digital audio to realize ideas that have long whispered in my head. Built within a flamenco cradle, it deconstructs musical modes, movements, rhythms, and melodies to reflect my lived experience as a queer, fat-femme boy from Miami navigating the sticky, urban landscape of NYC. What does it feel like to dance House por Bulerías, move to the Fandangos of the L Train, or sing Tangos de Bushwick? Night Creatures honors tradition while letting it evolve into something new, adapted to its environment.
Guitar: Anthony “Tiriti” Tran
Dancers: Chris Browne Valenzuela, Alberto Morales, and Jose Martinez Chavarria.
Clavar/Me Clavé . In Spanish, “clavar” means “to nail,” and in slang, “to fuck.” The piece explores the confusion of lust and love, the false intimacy of hookup culture, and the exhaustion of navigating desire through a screen. It confronts the space between wanting and being wanted, between being seen and being consumed. Through a combination of video projection, voiceover, and percussive dance, I examine how bodies become both altar and marketplace, and what it might mean to step outside that exchange.
“Los sirenos no lloran agua salada,” or “Mermen don’t cry salty tears,” began as a dance work during my residency at Brooklyn Arts Exchange with the Needing It cohort and was later developed into a video piece at the Jonah Bokaer Arts Foundation’s Chez Bushwick site. The work meditates on endings and the grieving of relationships—the realization that the life I imagined may not come to pass, and that love can be lonely, complex, and profoundly beautiful.
Aire Libre
A series of writings, thoughts, and conversations about the state of flamenco in NYC.
Flamenco Rosado
Colectiva Flamenco Rosado was a project between 2022 - 2024 that explored the queering of the art form by experimental artists based in NYC.
Manifesto on Flamenco
My flamenco is…
an instrument in my toolkit—
a color on my palette,
a brush or pencil in my case.
It’s the shape of a gouge in my carving set,
a needle grouping when I tattoo,
a surface I build my visuals on,
a filter on my lens.
My flamenco is
sticky, dirty, sweaty.
It tastes like mango, honey, whiskey,
cayenne, cinnamon, and cock.
It smells like rose, Egyptian musk,
sweat, cum, and poppers.
It is the lived experience
of a gay boy from Miami
whose skin fit like an itchy sweater
in 100-degree heat and humidity—
who walked roads lined with
coconut palms and magnolia trees,
piss-soaked icy sidewalks and hot garbage,
angry men and aggressive rats,
catcalls and the word faggot
screamed from spit-covered lips
in rage and in love.
It is not the flamenco
of a Spaniard or Andalusian,
not of old New York or Miami.
It is a flamenco danced
in Bushwick basements,
in sex clubs, queer spaces,
and East Village gay clubs—
next to House Heads, Voguers,
Ravers, and Breakers
in a cipher in Ridgewood.
It doesn’t wear lunares and flowers,
flecos or two-piece suits,
but leather and lace,
jockstraps and thongs,
crop tops and baggy pants.
It moves to the rhythm
of subway compás,
Tangos of the L train,
and Alegrías on Myrtle and Broadway.
It is ugly and beautiful,
wrong and strong,
fearless and questioning,
insecure and willing.
It is my flamenco—
and I stand by it.
This is my manifesto.