SINCE ITS INCEPTION in the late 1800s, flamenco has entranced the world. Evolving from the folkloric dances and music of southern Spain, it also takes cues from gypsy culture and classical styles of Spanish dance and guitar. The art form has developed into a rich, diverse genre, with enough demand to become a regular part of Spain’s theatrical programming.

Tablaos, however, are a bit different. The experience is intimate in these small clubs, which evolved from old singing cafes. Unlike the staged, choreographed, and heavily rehearsed flamenco productions of theaters, the shows here are entirely improvised. Their nightly flamenco programming can be a launching pad for young artists looking to hone their improvisation skills and personal performance style, while getting some coveted time in front of a live audience. The spaces are often oppressively small, maximizing profits by packing the crowd to capacity, with waitstaff slinging sangria and mixed drinks before, during, and after the shows.

It was on the tiny stage in the cramped black-box tablao of Madrid’s Casa Patas that I fell in love with flamenco dancer Israel Galván. I’d discovered Galván years prior, but it was not love at first sight. The first time I saw him perform was from the far fringes of a large auditorium as part of a fundraising gala, and my most lucid memory of his performance was thinking, “Well, that was weird.” At the time, Galván was at the precipice of international stardom, and it was precisely his unconventional take on flamenco that catapulted him squarely into the adoring limelight in cities across the world.

Every night in tablaos across Spain, singers, dancers, percussionists, and guitarists gather unrehearsed, sometimes having never worked together before, to perform live. They can do this because flamenco is a heavily codified artform. Without these codes and a strict adherence to them, there could be no improvisation, and the dance or music would not be considered flamenco. So even when dancers push boundaries, there are basic rules that cannot be broken. But Rocío Molina took flamenco improvisation to new heights, famously improvising for four hours straight at Seville’s Flamenco Biennial in 2016, accompanied by a myriad of guest musicians, engaging members of the audience to choose songs for her to dance to. Audience participation is not a part of flamenco tradition. The shouts of praise and a well-timed “olé” are customary, but anything more would traditionally be considered disrespectful to the craft. Molina dared to encourage otherwise.

With Molina, it was love at first sight for me. One of my favorite memories is watching her perform “Oro Viejo” at the 2009 Festival de Jerez. Dressed in a salmon-colored floor-length nineteenth-century gown with a fitted bodice, blonde hair pulled into a perfectly smooth side bun, she performed a guajira (a dance heavily influenced by the musical culture of colonial Cuba). Traditionally, they are performed by a female dancer accentuating delicate femininity with sweeping, elegant movements and a fluttering fan. But this was not your average guajira. Molina took tiny, quick steps across the stage, coquettishly dangling a fan from her hand while swinging her curvaceous bottom from side to side in a charming caricature of cloy femininity. She looked like a small wind-up doll, beautiful but mechanical. As she launched into the successive turns and the graceful balletic arms that define the guajira, Molina opted for a vivacious and playful approach rather than the typical pretty and poised. These tweaks didn’t challenge the flamenco tradition as much as they infused contemporary meaning into them, and the critical acclaim and positive reception of Molina’s new viewpoint would continue to push her in more radical directions.

Her productions often involve an exploration of the female, reflecting a deep desire to challenge stereotypes of femininity and sometimes outright reject taboos imposed on women. Molina is shorter and stockier than the dance world often likes or accepts, but the sturdiness of her body is perfect for the power of flamenco. It’s a power she infuses with a ferocious intelligence and ingenuity. She has a costuming penchant for spandex-style shorts and sports bras, a far cry from the traditionally voluminous flamenco dress. This is not a rejection of tradition, but an amplification of her choreographic style, born of an appreciation for watching flesh move. The female form is vindicated in her work, obliterating the male gaze that has for so long defined female acceptability.

In the 2016 “Caída del Cielo,” Molina portrays the fallen angel in Dante’s “The Divine Comedy.” She describes the work as a celebration of womanhood in all of its complexity, navigating the divine and the profane. In addressing humanity’s fall from grace, Molina embraces all that modern society has told women to be ashamed of, from nakedness to curiosity to sexuality, the latter of which was memorably portrayed through a snack-sized bag of chips stuck to her pubis. Each time she’d reach down to take a chip, one of her male accompanists would chidingly slap her hand away. The dance climaxes as she sends chips flying from her waistline, promptly devouring the few chips left in the bag, unwilling to leave unsatisfied.

“My starting point for everything I create is complete freedom. Of course, that means that the final result is feminist, but mainly because of the freedom that has been denied women, because of their silence, their oppression and repression. Therefore, seeing a woman behave freely is groundbreaking when it should be something natural,” Molina explains.

Full of rich visual presentation, flamenco has had no shortage of dancers experimenting with gender fluidity. As early as the 1880s, female dancer Trinidad Huertas “La Cuenca” was famous for dancing in male attire; by the 1940s Carmen Amaya had taken Hollywood by storm, sometimes in ruffled dresses and sometimes in high-waisted pants and button-down shirts; and by the 2000s we were starting to see men performing with the bata de cola (trained skirts), and embroidered mantón (silk shawls) traditionally worn by women. But perhaps the artist who has presented gender in flamenco in the most spectacular fashion is Manuel Liñán.

Unlike Galván and Molina, Liñán’s choreographic language is less edgy and more exemplary of the elegant, stylized flamenco coming out of Spain’s dance conservatories. His choreographic talent and impeccable dance technique have made him a darling of the flamenco scene. So it came as no surprise when, as a guest in dancer Belén Maya’s production “Los Invitados” at the 2014 Festival de Jerez, he stole the show, performing publicly for the first time dressed in the bata de cola and mantón. His masterful dexterity with the dress train and shawl was so well received that it became his signature style; each new production features a number with these accoutrements. However, the next step Liñán took with his 2019 show “¡Viva!” was not a measured progression of his performance. It was a gargantuan leap of faith.

While other shows have demonstrated that male dancers can lend a different kind of beauty to traditional female costuming, “¡Viva!” can loudly and proudly best be described as flamenco drag — complete with wigs, makeup, padding, and breasts. A drag persona is an extension of a performer’s true and inherent identity, and with “¡Viva!” Liñán wanted to explore the traits of other genders that naturally reside in all of us. He and his male group of dancers are not imitating women, but rather rejoicing in their interior woman — the woman who emerges when covered in the trappings of femininity.