"The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation."
"The bullfigher who terrifies the public with his bravado is not fighting bulls, but has lowered himself to a ridiculous level, to doing what anyone can do, by playing with his life: but the torero bitten by duende gives a lesson in Pythagorean music and makes us forget that he is constantly throwing his heart at the horns."
-- Federico Garcia Lorca, "Play and Theory of the Duende"
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When the Spanish poet Lorca tries to define the dark and numinous concept of "duende", he can do it only in cascading imagery, because there is no direct translation. It is a power which emerges not from training, not from skills and savvy, but drags right up from the blood and the marrow of the bones. It is true in any art form: you can play well, even brilliantly, without the duende, but once you've seen a great player under its influence, all else seems mere shadow-play.
With the new shock of Tito Vilanova's death comes a flood of memories, some no doubt romanticized, but there it is, that yearning for the Old Ways at the Camp Nou, for the wonderworks of the olden times. Somewhere, on the Guardian, I think, someone was giving Tata Martino credit for having settled Barca's ethereal feet onto the ground, given them a more streetwise, if less breathtaking, mode of play. At the time, in the wake of our trouncing at Munich, I took some comfort in it. And, indeed, I wonder if Martino's entire approach has been dictated by that devastating Champions League tie: as if, since the Germans were able to re-invent themselves by incorporating a more Spanish style, then he ought to Teuton-ize his Spaniards in response. I think he was trying to give them a sort of gravitas which the lightness and delicacy of their style has always resisted, a solidity they had previously managed to dance playfully around. It was a decent thought, but instead of strengthening the side, it has rather played against their greatest power, that playfulness itself.
Recently, after having watched February's match against Rayo Vallecano, a game in which the old fascination re-emerged, that old Catalan tiki-taka glee, the flaws in Martino's long-range game-plan were painfully apparent. The tired virtuosos were suddenly reborn, like kids released at last to the playground after a long and gruelling spell indoors, mischievously shrugging off their instructions as they interacted with a joy and fluid ingenuity I had not witnessed in some time, had almost, indeed, forgotten, although it was once so frequent a presence as to have seemed a twelfth squad-member whenever they stepped onto a pitch.
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There is a certain pleasing concinnity inherent in the notion of a holding midfielder excelling in management, something to do with his having spent his playing years with one eye on defense while the other was scanning for space in which to place an opportune pass. Roberto Martinez played as such, briefly with Zaragoza and Balaguer, his home port in Catalonia, then on to England and Wigan, where his stay was longer and more fruitful. He transferred to Motherwell in Scotland for a season, where he made only eight appearances but met his future wife. Then it was on to Walsall, where (according to Wikipedia) he only started once, a home match against Reading, during which he was sent off. Later he found some stability at Swansea City, which is also where he began his managerial career at an earlier age than most.
Despite having spent so little time professionally in Spain, anyone who has heard him speak during a Barca match can sense his deep respect for the club and its tradition, and a full appreciation for its mode of play, the beauty of the constant, delicate movement. He has, in short, the necessary poetry in his soul to coax forth that thaumaturgy which is not lacking, merely dormant, in that small gathering of Catalan magicians.
Martinez has proved himself in the Premiership a capable manager, both at Wigan and at Everton, although "capable" is far too stodgy, too earthbound a word to do him justice. Alongside the necessary pragmatism, he also owns the fortitude, vision, and trickster capacity to guide a hardscrabble outfit like Wigan to the FA Cup trophy even as they headed, probably inevitably, towards relegation. Barca is facing a hard time: the sobering loss of that irreplaceable duo Valdes and Puyol, the claustrophobia of the just-postponed, but still looming, transfer ban, and probably the first season without a trophy since Frank Rijkaard was in charge. Although I dislike the alacrity with which footballing managers are sacked without ceremony these days, I think Martino is not our man. Another change is in order. We thank him for filling in, and wish him well on his journey back to Argentina.
Instead, we look again to the Spanish mysteries. "The arrival of the duende," Lorca says, "presupposes a radical change to all the old kinds of form, brings totally unknown and fresh sensations, with the qualities of a newly created rose, miraculous, generating an almost religious enthusiasm." Martinez, more than any other manager, seems intimately connected with these old numinous magicks, able to communicate them to his jugadores, inspiring them to moments of crafty greatness which perhaps surprise even themselves.
I believe he is the man to ignite another Renaissance in Barcelona, and if we can lure him away from Everton without, for God's sake, breaking any laws, we ought to put our backs into it.
