Sometimes not many words appear and yet there’s something to say. Abuela nods her encouragement of this idea. Si, si…she says, patting my shoulder. The title of this blog post comes from a line in the poem ‘Barcelona in a Bag’. http://soniaboue.co.uk/section737318_280597.html
Abuela and I look at each other. It’s time, she nods again. Time for what? I ask. It’s like the moment you asked for my handbag, she suggests. Ah, I begin to see. A moment of impact, a moment in which to simply be and process. Things are happening in the studio, which I simply can’t explain. It’s gone a bit mud pies? Abuela says, trying to help. I smile. She is referring of course to the visceral pleasures of mixing, melting and amassing involved in my sometimes haphazard sand flan production. Today’s experiment is a variant I’m not so sure of despite the cloud of sweet cinnamon, which hangs in the air.
It has gone a bit mud pies, Abuela, I say, but something else too. Abuela looks at me carefully and suggests coffee -it’s getting to that time in the afternoon. With a swoosh of her apron she’s gone. My studio isn’t empty though and I am not alone. My research has taken me towards a new enchantment. I’m furrowing deep into the territory of the Cante jondo (deep song) in search of the lost land of my father’s exile.