My sister—and I am not blinded by my passion for her—was an exceptional woman. Along with being a great dancer, she was an exceptional artist, far ahead of her time. The evolution of the dance is a chain of events—can there be any doubt of that—and my sister gave the dance of her era a great push that enabled it to develop as it has. And she was the first to bring to the stage pueblo-style artists like Pablito and his brother Juan, who was still a child, and La Jeroma... If my sister were alive now, I don't know what she would do...she would commit heresies!

It is somewhat of a cliché to say that someone is "born to dance," but the truth is that my sister was born with that gift, with that profession, with that destiny. There was no known precedent in our family, but she was definitely born to dance!

My father was named Félix López and my mother, Dominica Julver. My father was from Madrid and worked in the fabric business. He often made business trips to Buenos Aires, from which came our connection with Argentina. He met my mother here in Madrid, married her, and their first daughter, Angeles, was born here. Later they returned to Buenos Aires to live and establish the fabric business. There, in 1899, my sister Encarna was born—along with another sister, Anita, and a brother, Francisco. At the time there was an epidemic, of scarlet fever I believe, and Anita, at only two or three years of age, and Francisco, at six or seven, both died within weeks of each other. That caused such grief for my parents that they decided to abandon Argentina. The fabric business, which had been quite profitable, was left with my father's brother who also lived there and, according to the only photograph I have of him, looked a lot like my father. Neither pressure from the family nor the success of the business could convince my father to stay there even one day more, so they returned to Madrid and set themselves up here.

So my sister Encarnación came here at eight or nine years of age—hence the name Argentinita—and, in photos taken at that time, you could see in her face that she would be something in her life. She had what you call with so much gracia, "hechuras"[the makings]. Well, with those "hechuras," and being just a little girl, my father took her with him to the cafés cantantes.  My parents were not artists, although my father was a great aficionado. In those days the fashion was the genero chico [light music], composers such as Chueca and Chapí, and musical works like "La Verbena de la Paloma" and "La Revoltosa," etc. That is what there was in the theaters. Besides that, there were the cafés cantantes where my father used to go. He was such a good aficionado that, after his work, he never went to bed without first going to the theater of some café cantante. And he used to take my sister Encarnación to the cafes, and many times she would join in the fin de fiesta [closing number]. Of course, I wasn't even born yet.

It was a crazy thing to do because the little girl was just that, a little girl, who after coming home from school had a little dinner and then went off with my father to have a glass of milk and watch dancing, singing, and guitar playing. The cafe was named Naranjeros, El Café de Naranjeros. I have searched for pictures of that cafe, but I have found nothing. I managed to find out where it was located, but have not found any picture to show me what it was like. El Café de Naranjeros was located in what they call the "Plaza de la Cebada," where the Teatro de La Latina is today...

 In any case, every night the little girl watched and listened to the artists, and at home the following day, with that gracia she had, she repeated everything she had seen and heard. My father, who owned a little guitar that I still possess, played a bit while Encarna sang and danced. My father's friends would say to him, "Félix, you can't just let this child stay here, you should take her to a school!"

At first he resisted, but finally gave in. One of the academies was that of Julia Castelao. That was a period when you had here the great teacher Otero, and the Pericets... Well, she went to that academy and then went to Barcelona, to the Liceo, because there was a teacher there, named Pauleta I believe, who was teaching the classical escuela bolera. She stayed there for several years.

I have photographs of her [Encarnación] at age twelve already competing with older artists such as Antonia Mercé "Argentina," Pastora [Imperio], Raquel [Meller]... At twelve! And still just a little girl, wearing little dresses stuffed with cotton (which my mother saved, and I have seen). Since she was still a child and very thin, while the others had hips and ample busts, she had to stuff her dresses to make herself look older...

She began her dancing dressed as a man. She had some little pants and danced like a man. From what they tell me, it was a brutal life, because she worked a great deal in the ferias of the small towns, where there were tiny theaters. My sister told me that there were times when they did up to fourteen shows a day, and she did two dances in each. A child! It was enough to destroy her. My father saw that it could not be, and so, to reduce the strain, my sister began to mix in some singing. It was true then, as it is now—and I speak in general terms—that you could almost say that singing pays better than dancing. And so it was that, for this and the other reason, she began to mix singing and dancing in her performances.

And then I came into the picture [1912]. My father was a great traveler. And my mother, as the saying goes, "la soga tras del cordero" [where the lamb goes, it's tie rope must follow]... I almost became a Catalonian, but just by chance I was born in San Sebastián [in the Basque province] where my father went because he liked the mild winter climate. Rafael Ortega used to say with much gracia when I became angry with my company or became very serious for some reason, "Pilar, don't put on your beret, please!"

So, by birth I am from San Sebastián, but I am really from Madrid, which is where I grew up. My father was not from Madrid, he was from Segovia, but he has some very special qualities, very gypsy. I look at photographs of him and say to myself, "My father had to be gypsy or Jewish." I think he must have been a Castillian gypsy. It is possible, because in our house, both Encarna and my father were very Andalusian, and me too. In our house we all adored flamenco—and without having roots there. It must have been in my father's blood!

All of my childhood and my youth was spent in theaters with my sister Encarnación. I grew up on the stage like the puppeteers, wandering here and there. But my sister, who saw the bigger picture, said, "This little girl is going to grow up like a savage!" And, so, when we were again situated in Madrid, I stayed with my mother, went to school, and attended the academy of music and dance. I also went to the academy of Julia Castalau... I studied with a sensational teacher, very tiny, but brilliant—almost all of the members of the National Orchestra have studied with her, or with her children. Her name was Amparo Gutiérrez. She lived in a very modest home, but began to play the piano each day at eight in the morning and didn't get up from it until twelve at night. I studied music with her for three years, piano for four, and won a prize in music. I don't know whether I could have been a great pianist, for I was studying dance at the same time and opted for dance rather than continue with a fifth year of piano.