The most noble artists of their crafts weave spells out of the earth and from the grace of their dance. A tap root in Spain: the primal aristocracy of the peasant, drawing her powers from the seasons, the elements, the earth. The moon is her goddess, drawing the tides of her great skirts and winding her veils of clouds.
She collects her symbols: twists, plaits, herbs, bells, and the collarbone of a hare. She is a mystic, unearthly and vast.
Her sister leaves the hills of the Alhambra to sing—her gift, her dance, her belief in her own craft—to bewitch and enthrall the men that drive the planet into the dark. She becomes a streetwalker in the Jazz Age, the lost generation of Spanish Harlem.
The sorceress tracks her down to the metropolis—a sidewalk in the hinterland of dirt track carpark, concrete walls. Her moon is a single street lamp.
Two moths drawn together. The sorceress watches her walk and walk. She moves closer. Recognition. Collision.
A fight and an embrace as fierce as a Francis Bacon, Francisco Goya, Diego Velà¡zquez.