World ballet star signed by Antonio Banderas: "I dance better now than when I was 20"

She was the first Spanish dancer invited to perform at the Vienna New Year’s Concert. Recognized as “Dancer of the Decade” at the Kremlin Palace. Winner of a slew of awards, including the Nijinsky, the Benois de la Danse, the Max, and the National Prize. A principal dancer with companies in Marseille, San Francisco, Munich, and Dortmund. But Lucía Lacarra only aspired to be “the last in line.” She wasn’t destined to become a star: she was born in a small village in Gipuzkoa in 1975 and lost her father at a very young age. It took “a lot of drive” to rise to the world’s leading stages. But that little girl who used to gaze spellbound at her mother’s jewelry box, where a figurine spun to the rhythm of *Swan Lake*, now has a place among the world’s best dancers. She is now coming to Málaga as the director of the dance festival at the Teatro del Soho CaixaBank, Antonio Banderas’ latest venture—an event that promises to turn the city into the epicenter of Spanish dance this April.

–You made your debut very close to here.

–Yes. At the Teatro Falla, in Cádiz. I was fifteen, and it was my first show as a professional. It’s one of those moments you never forget. I remember it fondly.

–Did that little girl ever imagine she’d become one of the world’s best dancers and have her own company?

–Not at all. When I was eleven, I’d seen a video of *Swan Lake* starring Natalia Makarova. My dance teacher in San Sebastián gave it to me: it was a VHS tape. And I remember calling my mother during the second act, when all the swans appear, and telling her: “Mom, I want to be one of them.” And I only aspired to be in the back row, to make a living from this. I never imagined being first in line. But I think I would have been just as happy being last. I just wanted to live on a stage, for my job to be going to the theater and dancing.

–Pure vocation.

–Exactly. For me, dance has been a calling, a way of life. I’ve never thought of it as a job, even though I’ve dedicated everything to it, body and soul.

–And has it been worth it?

–It’s given me satisfactions I never expected. I never even thought I’d achieve half of what I’ve accomplished.

–How curious: your talent has gone further than your ambition. It usually happens the other way around.

–At three years old I was already saying I was going to be a dancer, but no one knows where that desire came from. No one in my family had ever been involved in dance. It wasn’t even something you saw on TV; we know it’s not a highly valued discipline in Spain, much less back then. My mother had a jewelry box with the typical spinning ballerina that played music, and she remembers that, even as a baby, I could spend hours watching it. But other than that, it’s a mystery where this calling comes from. 

–What did your family think?

–It was extremely difficult for my mother. My father died in a car accident when I was two, and she was left alone with two girls. I’m the youngest, so they didn’t take me very seriously when I started saying I wanted to be a dancer. And I’m from Zumaya, a town that had eight thousand inhabitants at the time. Dance didn’t even exist there. But when I turned nine, a small dance school opened, and the teacher told my mother: “The girl has talent; we have to help her.”

–And did they help her?

–My mother was very realistic.

She was afraid I’d crash and burn. She knew where we came from, that we were in a small town... She was afraid they’d give me big ideas, so she took me to a summer course in Tarragona where there were amazing teachers like Rosella Hightower, with the intention of making me realize that dance is a complicated world and that I should treat it as a hobby. But the effect was the opposite: the teachers went out of their way for me, gave me even more confidence, and my mother was absolutely devastated because she hadn’t expected it at all. 

–And what made her change her mind?

–At first, the teachers wanted to take me to the Liceo in Barcelona, to Brussels, to Cannes… and she always said no. Until an opportunity arose to train in San Sebastián, which is half an hour from Zumaya, and she agreed. And from there, everything happened very quickly.

–Is it as tough a world as it seems? Sometimes it even gives off a certain sense of cruelty that I’m not sure matches reality.

–It’s very demanding, but I haven’t experienced it as a punishment but as a gift. It’s the way of life I’ve chosen, the one I’ve wanted since I was a child.

–Didn’t you even see it as a sacrifice when the injuries came, the toughest moments?

–Never, not a single day, have I wanted to do anything other than dance. Does it require discipline? Yes. And a lot of work.

–And physical effort.

–I’ve been lucky to be born with a body that’s made for dancing. I think that’s why I haven’t had to push it as hard as other people. The positions, the lines—I do them naturally. Maybe that’s why I’ve had such a long career. 

–Because many of your peers have already retired by your age.

–By the time they’re thirty, they’re already starting to think about steering their careers in a different direction, yes. I’m lucky that my body, for now, supports me and doesn’t complain.

–But you’ve also suffered injuries, some very serious ones.

–I haven’t had constant, chronic injuries, which are the ones that cause the most psychological damage, but I have suffered very bad injuries. In *The Tempest*, for example, I was playing Ariel and I tore my cruciate ligaments on stage after a jump.

–What happened?

–I took a jump, and when I landed, my knee went ‘crack,’ and I found myself kissing the floor. I knew something had snapped. It was a very bad injury because my knees are perfect for the lines—they’re long—but very complicated to operate on. It was a tough surgery. My leg turned purple; they had to drain fluid from it four times a week. No one, not even the doctor, thought I’d ever dance again. The only one who didn’t doubt it for a second was me. And six months later, I was dancing again.

–On another occasion, you danced for months with a broken finger.

–My finger dislocated because a dance partner put me down a little harder than usual. The bones were very small, so they took X-rays but couldn’t find the problem. I kept dancing until I couldn’t take the pain anymore. I had to have surgery twice.

–Not even pain can stop her.

–It’s not that I like to suffer; I don’t like pain, but on stage I’m so focused that I forget everything. For example, ever since I had my daughter, I’ve suffered from migraines due to three cervical herniations, but on stage I don’t feel them. As soon as I get back to the dressing room, they hit me like a hammer to the head, but while I’m on stage I don’t feel that pain.

–I suppose that’s something you train for, too.

–We focus our minds so much on what we’re doing that… But I have a good sense of pain.

I know which pains are normal—like those from a long training session, for example, what I call “good pains”—and which ones are dangerous. I’ve learned to listen to my body.

–Is there a big difference between dancing at twenty and at forty?

–A huge one, but not always negative. No one is the same person at twenty as they are at forty. We don’t have the same tastes or the same concerns. Personalities and needs change. I’ve seen dancers in their forties trying to make people believe they’re twenty or thirty. I prefer to embrace change, evolution. And there are things it’s fine to leave at the level you’ve achieved, but in other cases I dance much better than when I was twenty because I have more experience, a different way of seeing things. 

–Really?

–Yes. Earlier we were talking about the injury. I remember being in the ambulance and staying completely calm, composed. I realized I’d spent years worrying about things—details—that didn’t matter: a slight misstep with the music, issues with the costumes… And that day I realized that what really mattered was finishing the show. Because I couldn’t finish it, of course. They had to take me to the hospital, and the curtain came down. That completely changed the way I view this work. Now I enjoy every second on stage, even if I’m standing still waiting to perform a solo. And I’m grateful to finish every show and greet the audience.

–Did your pride hurt more than your knee?

–I don’t have a particularly inflated ego. We’re artists; we shouldn’t take it so seriously. I don’t think it was pride but rather high standards for myself. I’ve learned not to judge myself so harshly, to let go, and not to try to control every movement. We’re artists, not gymnasts. On stage, emotions flow, and that makes you imperfect.

–Do you feel you’ve learned that over the years?

–Absolutely. People have always been surprised when I’ve switched companies while being a principal dancer, but I think it’s part of the evolution needed to keep learning. Moving to a different country, even a different continent, and starting from scratch.

–And when did you start getting interested in management?

–Early on; at twenty, I started managing myself. Before accepting any offer, I wanted to know who I’d be working with, how things were organized… Having my own company felt natural. It allows me to make decisions, and that has given the shows a whole new dimension for me. I’ve tried it, and I would never go back to being just another member of a company.

–How does directing a festival like this fit into this stage of your career?

–I see it as a golden opportunity, a way to contribute something more to the world of dance. One way or another, I’ll always be on stage.

–And what did you think when you got the call from Antonio Banderas?

–Antonio is a movie star. The fact that he opened his own theater in his hometown strikes me as amazing news. Because theater is the least lucrative business there is. For me, it was magical to find out what he’d done. And ever since then, I’ve wanted to dance for him, on his stage, but our paths never crossed. Until we met at the awards ceremony of the Royal Academy of Performing Arts, where I was made an honorary member the same year he received his award. The conversation started right away. He told me he had a soft spot for dance; he mentioned that this idea had been on his mind, and, coincidentally, I had already drafted a festival proposal. I think some things are meant to happen.

–But sometimes you have to give things a push: you already had that project, for example.

–Yes, I always say it’s better to have twenty percent talent and eighty percent discipline and hard work than the other way around. I come from a town of eight thousand people and started at a time when dance barely existed in Spain. To achieve this, you need to be really driven.

–Are you ready to say goodbye to the stage?

–When I was in San Francisco, I saw several farewell shows—something they really like to do there—and I thought I’d never be able to do something like that. Because I’m not going to set an end date for my life on stage, saying, “On such-and-such a day, I’ll do my last show.” Now I enjoy other aspects of this work, such as production or directing this festival, for example, and I know there will come a time when I naturally stop dancing. But I won’t be able to set a date for it.