Word: escudero
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...spry, bright-eyed man of 75, whose working companion these days is a sweet-faced alley cat with a raucous meow, De Creeft took one sensational detour while still in Paris. It happened one day when "I was sick in the bed." The great flamenco dancer Escudero suddenly burst in and demanded that he make something for a party that would take place that night. De Creeft gazed up at the cold stovepipes that crossed his studio ceiling and, though still muy mal, put together his famous Picador. Almost overnight he was hailed as the founder of a new school...
...final" farewell tour of the U.S., Spain's youthful (64) Gypsy Vicente Escudero, grandest master of the flamenco, made an unlikely bivouac in Manhattan's staid Hotel Plaza, paused between stomping and fingernail-castanetting to reminisce about his roving life and good times. One of diminutive (5 ft. 6 in., 125 Ibs.) Dancer Escudero's closest barroom buddies was the late, bibulous portrayer of Montmartre, Maurice Utrillo. Was Utrillo ever sober? Snorted Escudero: "Ah, poor Maurice! When not in his cups he would fall down, so he sought to avoid sobriety at all costs!" Is Escudero...
...Vicente Escudero, sixtyish Spanish dancer (he is not sure about his age), returned to the U.S. with a troupe of young dancers for the first time in 20 years and rapped out his zapateados with such eclat that his show was held over for another two weeks...
...great Pavlova invited him to join her on a U.S. tour; when she died unexpectedly, Escudero made a triumphal trip alone. Glory and wealth poured in. But when World War II closed the frontiers of Europe, he went back to Spain to find that times had changed; the popularity of pure flamenco was waning, and younger dancers were experimenting with the continental ballet style. Escudero scraped together what was left of his fabled earnings and formed his own company, but changing tastes and the indifference of impresarios forced him to close after a few performances...
Then came the letter from Paris. After his last bow to the farewell audience in Valladolid last week, Escudero put on his black cape and walked out of the theater, into one of the coldest nights Valladolid recalls. There, awaiting him, stood a shivering crowd, anxious to cheer him once more. Youngsters called for his autograph. A woman's voice rose above the rest. "Vicente!" she cried. "Our flowers are frozen, but we offer you our hearts." Vicente Escudero's face lit up with happiness. "It's like old times," he said. "I had forgotten. Thank...