Women on the Verge

There is a tradition at play whenever the annual Flamenco Festival takes over Sadler’s Wells in the early summer, it is almost always swelteringly hot outside. With a record-breaking high of 36.4 Celsius this June in London it becomes hard not to feel that the Spanish bring the weather with them. The whole atmosphere of the city, and indeed of Sadler’s Wells, changes. The theatres are filled with folding fans and Spanish chatter. Even the square English guiris in the audience shout “olé” and “arsa” in approval.

Performance

Flamenco Festival: “Creaviva” by Rafaela Carrasco / “Calentamiento” by Rocio Molina / “Magnifica” by María Moreno

Place

Sadler's Wells, London, UK, June 16-29, 2026

Words

Eoin Fenton

Rafaela Carrasco's “Creaviva.” Photograph by Robert Laurent

For its twenty-first year the programme is as packed as ever, but it was the solo works of three women from Andalusia, arguably the cradle of flamenco, that stood out among the rest. Between them are a slew of accolades and reputations for supreme technique and new perspectives on the art form.

Originally from Seville, Rafaela Carrasco brings “Creaviva” to Sadler's’ theatre in Angel. The feeling is auspicious and ceremonial, pale sheets drape the borders of the space and the cast, made up of Carrasco and her musical ensemble, are all dressed in white. The vibe is a little neopagan. Her mission in the work is to channel inspiration from the muses of Ancient Greece: Calliope, Terpsichore, Polyhymnia, the whole gang. It’s an apt scenario for flamenco, an art form that emphasises the intimate ties between the bailaor (dancer) and the cuadro (musical ensemble). “Creaviva” is no exception, the work begins with Carrasco encircled by her cuadro, becoming a conduit of their energy as if standing in a ring of stones.

What follows possesses all the integral elements of flamenco, but with an air of the sacred. A whispering voice asks us in Spanish to give thanks to the muses, the mothers. Carrasco uses her voice too, singing in recorded loops to a suspended microphone. The spoken and sung is integral to the work—the cantaora (singer) Gema Caballero is especially impressive—after all lyrical prose is an art of the muses. However, a lack of translation renders it challenging even for those with some Spanish to follow along. What needs no translation is Carrasco’s corporeal gifts. She is totally rooted in her movement with unfussy arms and a keen sense of musicality, she achieves unrelenting heights in her zapateado (tapping) as she rises to the challenge set by percussionist Pablo Martín Jones on an adufe drum. What happens in between these episodes of inspiration is a little less compelling, and for a long stretch it is only after Carrasco finally dons her ruffled bata de cola dress that we feel really engaged again. Perhaps Terpsichore needs to take the wheel a little bit more in this pantheon.

Rocio Molina in “Calentamiento.” Photograph by Simone Fratini

From Málaga, Rocio Molina skews our glamorous vision of flamenco by beginning with the very basics, simply warming up her feet in her rehearsal clothes. She grabs a mic and explains her physiological and mental state while her feet pound at an unrelenting steady rhythm, like an industrial machine. To her, the warm-up is both a way of telling her body that it is about to feel pain while simultaneously telling her mind to give in to the mundane. It’s torturous, she becomes less coherent as she speaks, riffing in Spanish with the audience pleading for an escape—she would make a pretty good standup with her charms. She goes and goes, tapping out the same rhythm. “If you came to see me finish you might as well go now,” she warns us, “I will always be beginning.”

It is once she is unleashed like a marionette off its strings that the mad world of “Calentamiento” begins. A series of increasingly surreal scenes play out as Molina talks us through her fears of beginning things and ending things, of death, and of dance in general. She complains that these days dancers are expected to exhaust themselves for the audience’s sake before she wrestles with a chair that starts to float away—even supernatural forces want to keep her from resting. What makes Molina’s romp work so successfully is the marriage of her intense charisma as a performer with the wit of Pablo Messiez’s text and absurdist imagery, like one group of cantaoras trapped in a transparent cube who sing for Molina on her command. Even after they break free in a drunken stupor and burden Molina with a pile of chairs on top of her, she continues to tap her feet. Even as the cast take their bow she continues to tap her feet. The audience files out slowly from the theatre and she continues to tap. This is a woman addicted to duende, and part of us never wants to see her stop.

María Moreno in “Magnificat.” Photograph by Beatrix Molnar

Over in the East London theatre is Cádiz native María Moreno with a work of purer origins, the Bible. “Magnificat” draws from the Catholic imagery that pervades Spanish culture, in particular the Visitation—where a pregnant Mary announces her miraculous news to her cousin Elizabeth, also pregnant. What follows, according to Moreno’s interpretation, is an expression of pure ecstasy within the bodies of these women. The work is accordingly festive with a set composed of fairy lights and party chairs, there’s even some bunting. Moreno struts out wearing a broad smile and a frilly, pink get-up with ribbons on top.

It’s almost a little campy how happy everything is before we’ve even really begun. She paces through the conventional elements first, bata de cola and shawl work done with aplomb, though it feels more like the servings at a conventional tablao than a theatrical expression. But Moreno has plenty more up her pink sleeves. Her fingers are supremely dexterous, her zapateado quite literally breathtaking. Her symbiosis with her cuadro, especially percussionist Roberto Jaén, is air-tight yet always light and conversant. The ancillary elements of “Magnificat” are more of a mixed bag. There are moments that are clearly reminiscent of more transatlantic expressions of faith: praise break stomping, tambourines, and costumes that take a note out of Godspell’s book of twee Christian expression. But the joy is what reigns supreme. This is especially delivered in spades by actress Rosa Romero as Elizabeth who speaks at superhuman speeds to her cousin, teasing Mary’s chaste hip wiggles. It’s hard even for the unanointed to not crack a smile.

Eoin Fenton

Eoin (they/he) is a dance maker and writer based in Cork (Rep. of Ireland), and London (UK). They have danced across Ireland and London in venues including The Place, Project Arts Centre Dublin and Galway Cathedral. Eoin graduated with a BA in Choreography from Middlesex University in 2024 and began writing as part of the Resolution Reviews programme. They are a regular contributor to A Young(ish) Perspective.

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