The moment when you walk into the salon from a freezing evening.
Greetings and hugs and kisses, followed by gasps and shivers and exclamations remarking on coldness of noses or chilliness of hands. And then you acclimatise to the temperature, like a diver adjusting to the pressure, until you're the one surprised by the cool kiss of a recent arrival.
Monday, 10 December 2012
Saturday, 8 December 2012
...Besos impregnados de amargura...
At the end of the tanda I'm kissed on the cheek.
It is a happy moment, but as is always the way with tango, there is a little bitterness there.
Neither of us wanted it to end.
It is a happy moment, but as is always the way with tango, there is a little bitterness there.
Neither of us wanted it to end.
Thursday, 6 December 2012
...llevando mi ansiedad de amar...
I know some people who get anxious.
Frightened before a milonga. That they won't be invited to dance. That they'll be turned down cruelly by anyone they invite to dance. That they'll be laughed at for their incompetence or dismissed for their ordinariness. They think of themselves as invisible. Nobody that anybody would seek out.
I find that these people are very often the best dancers. The most compassionate, passionate, exciting, surprising dancers.
I wish they could know how good they were.
But probably, changing that, would change them. A paradox of confidence.
Frightened before a milonga. That they won't be invited to dance. That they'll be turned down cruelly by anyone they invite to dance. That they'll be laughed at for their incompetence or dismissed for their ordinariness. They think of themselves as invisible. Nobody that anybody would seek out.
I find that these people are very often the best dancers. The most compassionate, passionate, exciting, surprising dancers.
I wish they could know how good they were.
But probably, changing that, would change them. A paradox of confidence.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
...en que me encandilé...
I'm not sure I know anyone who's completely immune to it.
There are those who are less influenced, less taken in. But sooner or later, we all see someone, somewhere, who just takes our breath away. We're dazzled.
Their walk, maybe. Or the way they drag something unique from the music. The way the ground seems to pull at their feet in a different way than it does for everyone else, perhaps. Or else they're so quick that to the rest of us they're just a blur and a visual echo.
And in that moment, we can be inspired or deflated. Maybe it gives us ideas and hope. Someone to aim to dance with or to dance like. Or else it gives us the idea that we should just give up now, because how can we possibly ever do that, be like that.
One of these is probably the correct response.
There are those who are less influenced, less taken in. But sooner or later, we all see someone, somewhere, who just takes our breath away. We're dazzled.
Their walk, maybe. Or the way they drag something unique from the music. The way the ground seems to pull at their feet in a different way than it does for everyone else, perhaps. Or else they're so quick that to the rest of us they're just a blur and a visual echo.
And in that moment, we can be inspired or deflated. Maybe it gives us ideas and hope. Someone to aim to dance with or to dance like. Or else it gives us the idea that we should just give up now, because how can we possibly ever do that, be like that.
One of these is probably the correct response.
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
...la luz de tu mirar...
A dark room. More atmosphere, apparently. Though the atmosphere to me is improved by the ability to see who's dancing and, equally importantly, where they're sitting when they're not dancing. Better still, if the whites of their eyes aren't shrouded in shadows and gloom, then we can actually make eye contact. And eye contact equals a question. And a question gets an answer. And an answer may lead on to a meeting on the dance floor.
For me, the brighter the better. But I'm happy as long as I can see across the room without needing a flashlight.
For me, the brighter the better. But I'm happy as long as I can see across the room without needing a flashlight.
Monday, 3 December 2012
...yo maldeci...
The guy in front is taking great oblivious steps backwards.
I curse less these days.
The woman behind is flicking her heels high and wide at every opportunity.
And I, in the middle, silently curse.
But things are changing.
The wide radius kickers and the oblivious step-backers are fewer and fewer.
There are more and more places where social dancers actually dance socially.
The wide radius kickers and the oblivious step-backers are fewer and fewer.
There are more and more places where social dancers actually dance socially.
I curse less these days.
Saturday, 1 December 2012
...de toda tu crueldad...
We sometimes take comfort in other people's cruelty. It lets us feel better about our own.
And you're the cruelest. You know you are.
It makes me feel better about myself to think this of you.
And you're the cruelest. You know you are.
It makes me feel better about myself to think this of you.
Thursday, 29 November 2012
...y al ver la realidad...
Looking around, wondering where's the reality in what I'm seeing...
- Is it in the frantic scrabble for the best dances we can possibly get?
- Is it in the moment of kindness when someone hiding behind tears in a corner of the room is given a cup of tea, a biscuit, a hug?
- Is it the guy frowning because this tanda is too modern, too scratchy, too loud?
- Is it the people peering through the window, shopping bags forgotten in their hands, wondering what strange world they've stumbled upon?
Friday, 18 May 2012
...todo mi ser...
The whole of my being.
I am nothing except in your arms.
I hear nothing but the music and your gentle breathing.
Our embrace contains us and everything that's important to us.
I can feel the ground pressing against my feet, and through our chests I can feel the ground pressing against your feet.
I know where you are. You know where we're going. We know our mind.
The whole of our being. Tango.
I am nothing except in your arms.
I hear nothing but the music and your gentle breathing.
Our embrace contains us and everything that's important to us.
I can feel the ground pressing against my feet, and through our chests I can feel the ground pressing against your feet.
I know where you are. You know where we're going. We know our mind.
The whole of our being. Tango.
Thursday, 17 May 2012
...del día que te dí...
Sign up for classes or workshops with a partner who isn't known to you. Maybe the organiser pairs you up with somebody, or you appeal online and you're matched with someone you've not met.
These workshops can feel very long, or very short. You're sacrificing your day, risking it on a completely unpredictable factor. If the two of you don't click, the lessons are going to be more about you bashing heads than about learning something new. If you're lucky enough to have a regular partner for classes, then this experience won't have bothered you often. I'm lucky enough. But occasionally, through illness or unavailability, you're thrown in with someone else for a change.
This is communication of a different kind. You're in a lesson. Feedback should be welcome. But it still must be tactful. Crush someone's confidence at the beginning and they won't be in a position to take anything else on board. Allow someone to batter your ego and you won't be able to focus on the task at hand.
Of course, for some couples, the regular partner is the problem. They look on it as a relief when they get to learn with someone else.
These workshops can feel very long, or very short. You're sacrificing your day, risking it on a completely unpredictable factor. If the two of you don't click, the lessons are going to be more about you bashing heads than about learning something new. If you're lucky enough to have a regular partner for classes, then this experience won't have bothered you often. I'm lucky enough. But occasionally, through illness or unavailability, you're thrown in with someone else for a change.
This is communication of a different kind. You're in a lesson. Feedback should be welcome. But it still must be tactful. Crush someone's confidence at the beginning and they won't be in a position to take anything else on board. Allow someone to batter your ego and you won't be able to focus on the task at hand.
Of course, for some couples, the regular partner is the problem. They look on it as a relief when they get to learn with someone else.
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
...con la ansiedad febril...
Two words that never help: "Calm down."
Your partner knows that they're tense. Nervous. Anxious. They know that they're likely to pass that feeling on to you by contagion.
But the objective is to do the reverse. To stay calm and still and allow them to hook into that. Maybe you just stand and listen to the music for a while. Perhaps a weight change or two, so that she doesn't worry that she's missing something, or to tell him that you're connected and you're there, and that he's going to know where you are at all times. A non-vocal reassurance. Give them your calmness as a gift. Don't demand it in an order.
Your partner knows that they're tense. Nervous. Anxious. They know that they're likely to pass that feeling on to you by contagion.
But the objective is to do the reverse. To stay calm and still and allow them to hook into that. Maybe you just stand and listen to the music for a while. Perhaps a weight change or two, so that she doesn't worry that she's missing something, or to tell him that you're connected and you're there, and that he's going to know where you are at all times. A non-vocal reassurance. Give them your calmness as a gift. Don't demand it in an order.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
...tratando de olvidar te recordé...
If I forget your name, please don't take it personally.
If I smile, nod, say hello, but don't introduce you to a friend, please don't take it personally. I remember the feelings of dances, but I remember few faces and few names. I'm never offended if I'm not remembered, because I remember so little myself. This seems unimaginable to those lucky people who have an infinite number of slots in their memory for different people. They meet them once, and thereafter can remember their home town, place of work, type of car, favourite pet, and mother's maiden name.
I've been known to not recognise the odd photograph of myself.
If I smile, nod, say hello, but don't introduce you to a friend, please don't take it personally. I remember the feelings of dances, but I remember few faces and few names. I'm never offended if I'm not remembered, because I remember so little myself. This seems unimaginable to those lucky people who have an infinite number of slots in their memory for different people. They meet them once, and thereafter can remember their home town, place of work, type of car, favourite pet, and mother's maiden name.
I've been known to not recognise the odd photograph of myself.
Monday, 14 May 2012
...del desamparo cruel...
It's easy to find a comfort zone and stop trying to improve. We neglect our own training. We turn our noses up at possibilities to improve ourselves.
Some reach this comfort zone early. They turn up at milongas. They dance as much as they want to. They go home. They don't seek to make themselves nicer to dance with. They've achieved their goal already.
I think we all go through phases of this. There are times when I've stagnated. Settled for where I am, accepted that I'm good enough. There are times when the effort and risk of going backwards in the interests of eventually going forwards again seem too high.
And then something inspires me again. It may be watching a particular leader. It may be dancing with a particularly wonderful partner. It may be failing to dance with a particularly particularly wonderful follower. And back to the class I go. Back to the private lessons. Back to the practice time with renewed enthusiasm and determination.
I'm back to enthusiasm at the moment, and so I realise that I've been neglecting my tango education recently.
And by neglecting that, I've been neglecting my dance partners too.
Some reach this comfort zone early. They turn up at milongas. They dance as much as they want to. They go home. They don't seek to make themselves nicer to dance with. They've achieved their goal already.
I think we all go through phases of this. There are times when I've stagnated. Settled for where I am, accepted that I'm good enough. There are times when the effort and risk of going backwards in the interests of eventually going forwards again seem too high.
And then something inspires me again. It may be watching a particular leader. It may be dancing with a particularly wonderful partner. It may be failing to dance with a particularly particularly wonderful follower. And back to the class I go. Back to the private lessons. Back to the practice time with renewed enthusiasm and determination.
I'm back to enthusiasm at the moment, and so I realise that I've been neglecting my tango education recently.
And by neglecting that, I've been neglecting my dance partners too.
Friday, 11 May 2012
...y allá en la soledad...
The milonga has to begin at some point. It begins now. Some people have arrived already. They change their shoes. They pour water into glasses. They eat a grape or a crisp or a biscuit, whatever happens to be set out on each table. They are itching to dance, but the floor is empty. Who will take the first step? Who will make themselves visible first? Knowing that there's no way they'll be dancing their best after an hour in the car, or a walk through the rain and the cold, or an argument about the fact that they'd forgotten to feed the cat before setting off.
Whoever does it, is temporarily a performer. They don't want to be. But they'll be watched by others, wondering whether it's safe, yet, to come into the water.
It's difficult: dancing without other people to shape your dance, to give you boundaries, to make the pace.
But they manage. And soon dancers will fill the floor. The crowd will fill the room.
And there is the solitude: gone.
Whoever does it, is temporarily a performer. They don't want to be. But they'll be watched by others, wondering whether it's safe, yet, to come into the water.
It's difficult: dancing without other people to shape your dance, to give you boundaries, to make the pace.
But they manage. And soon dancers will fill the floor. The crowd will fill the room.
And there is the solitude: gone.
Thursday, 10 May 2012
...que te imploré...
Just let there be one more tanda, we plead. One more tune. Just a short one.
Our feet beg us to stop. Our heads hurt. We forgot to drink enough water.
The neighbours are banging on the door insisting that the music be turned off. Now.
Our hearts entreat us for another moment of connection. Another moment of stillness.
Everyone wants something. Not everyone wants the same. Not everyone can be happy.
We leave with mixed feelings.
Our feet beg us to stop. Our heads hurt. We forgot to drink enough water.
The neighbours are banging on the door insisting that the music be turned off. Now.
Our hearts entreat us for another moment of connection. Another moment of stillness.
Everyone wants something. Not everyone wants the same. Not everyone can be happy.
We leave with mixed feelings.
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
...el fuego de ese amor...
People get confused.
Tango works because there's a framework and there are rules.
You nod, you dance, you separate, you go on with your lives.
But sometimes the lines blur. Especially in places where the rules aren't so established.
And people get confused.
It's not always easy to make and break such profound connections over such a short period of time.
It's easy to mix up the music and the dance with the real world.
It's easy to mistake that temporary love for real love.
It's easy to expect the fifteen minutes to become fifty years.
But it's over. Until the next time. Except when it isn't.
Confusing.
Tango works because there's a framework and there are rules.
You nod, you dance, you separate, you go on with your lives.
But sometimes the lines blur. Especially in places where the rules aren't so established.
And people get confused.
It's not always easy to make and break such profound connections over such a short period of time.
It's easy to mix up the music and the dance with the real world.
It's easy to mistake that temporary love for real love.
It's easy to expect the fifteen minutes to become fifty years.
But it's over. Until the next time. Except when it isn't.
Confusing.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
...buscando de olvidar...
It's an expression of empathy, this dance. Empathy to the nth degree. We look to lose ourselves in the moment, in our partner, in the music. This is desirable, to me. But we have to do it because we want to communicate, not because we want to run and hide from ourselves. While we're giving our all to our partner, he or she is likely to be doing the same for us. And if we're not there anymore, how can they do that?
We have to be present for our partner, not absently dreaming the dream. I think that resolving this contradiction is why people end up talking about having one body with four legs during the dance. Somehow our thoughts synchronise, they don't stop. I'm starting to feel this. I've had a taste of it. I want more.
We have to be present for our partner, not absently dreaming the dream. I think that resolving this contradiction is why people end up talking about having one body with four legs during the dance. Somehow our thoughts synchronise, they don't stop. I'm starting to feel this. I've had a taste of it. I want more.
Monday, 7 May 2012
...Sin rumbo fuí...
I'm lost.
The room's too big.
The aren't enough chairs.
Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to stand. I'm either in a crowd or in solitude.
If the environment is wrong, we wander hopelessly. We can't settle. We can't feel at home.
If the seats don't surround the dance floor, we feel cut off when we dance. We feel like we're dancing in an aircraft hangar.
Another day, another place.
The room feels right, it feels like everyone in it is tuned in to the music. Hearing different things in it, maybe. Interpreting it uniquely in each case. But in tune. And when that includes even those who're not even dancing at the moment, then we're the opposite of lost. We're found.
The room's too big.
The aren't enough chairs.
Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to stand. I'm either in a crowd or in solitude.
If the environment is wrong, we wander hopelessly. We can't settle. We can't feel at home.
If the seats don't surround the dance floor, we feel cut off when we dance. We feel like we're dancing in an aircraft hangar.
Another day, another place.
The room feels right, it feels like everyone in it is tuned in to the music. Hearing different things in it, maybe. Interpreting it uniquely in each case. But in tune. And when that includes even those who're not even dancing at the moment, then we're the opposite of lost. We're found.
Friday, 4 May 2012
...como una maldición...
We all carry around our curses.
For me, there've been different things at different times. Some seem constant.
Posture, of course, for me. Always posture. Slowly it improves, but as I dance I always feel it's wrong, know it's wrong. I think we learn to live with these curses a little more, as our tango maturity develops. We figure out that we can't worry about all our inadequacies all the time. If we do, we dance like robots, constantly correcting ourselves. Overcorrecting ourselves. Forgetting the dance itself. We get lost in the technicalities.
I know those whose curse is that they bend their legs too much or not enough. Or they hold on too tightly or lean their head too far forwards. Their arm on the open side of the embrace is too stiff or too much like jelly.
And the more you fixate on your problem, the bigger the curse grows. Until your fixation on the problem is your real problem.
And to break the curse? Apart from practice, I've still found only one answer: Patience.
For me, there've been different things at different times. Some seem constant.
Posture, of course, for me. Always posture. Slowly it improves, but as I dance I always feel it's wrong, know it's wrong. I think we learn to live with these curses a little more, as our tango maturity develops. We figure out that we can't worry about all our inadequacies all the time. If we do, we dance like robots, constantly correcting ourselves. Overcorrecting ourselves. Forgetting the dance itself. We get lost in the technicalities.
I know those whose curse is that they bend their legs too much or not enough. Or they hold on too tightly or lean their head too far forwards. Their arm on the open side of the embrace is too stiff or too much like jelly.
And the more you fixate on your problem, the bigger the curse grows. Until your fixation on the problem is your real problem.
And to break the curse? Apart from practice, I've still found only one answer: Patience.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Llevando mi pesar...
We have baggage.
We carry ourselves from place to place. We rarely leave everything else behind. We ask ourselves, why should we? We've earned this baggage. It's the reason that people are often proud of their scars. Evidence of existence. Evidence that something happened. We cling onto our emotional scars in the same way. If it weren't for them, we wouldn't be who we are.
And tango taps into this, just as it takes us away from it. If you've not experienced sadness and despair, it's much more difficult to connect to the music. If you have, you can hear it multiplied a thousandfold in those voices. In the violin. In the bandoneón. And at the same moment, your own pain is elsewhere. Put on hold. You're in someone else's shoes for three minutes.
We carry ourselves from place to place. We rarely leave everything else behind. We ask ourselves, why should we? We've earned this baggage. It's the reason that people are often proud of their scars. Evidence of existence. Evidence that something happened. We cling onto our emotional scars in the same way. If it weren't for them, we wouldn't be who we are.
And tango taps into this, just as it takes us away from it. If you've not experienced sadness and despair, it's much more difficult to connect to the music. If you have, you can hear it multiplied a thousandfold in those voices. In the violin. In the bandoneón. And at the same moment, your own pain is elsewhere. Put on hold. You're in someone else's shoes for three minutes.
Silence
... and silence falls as the cortina fades away.
We wait for the next tanda.
It won't be long.
I think I can hear it now.
Sounds like Donato...
We wait for the next tanda.
It won't be long.
I think I can hear it now.
Sounds like Donato...
Friday, 27 April 2012
One (1)
One doesn't step into the line of dance without looking where one's going.
We often talk about what one could, should, or must do in a given situation.
'One' is a gender-neutral, third-person singular pronoun. 'One' is generally someone else.
I sometimes step into the line of dance without looking where I'm going.
One always uses the mirada and the cabeceo to invite someone to dance
Though if she won't look in my direction I might have to go up and ask.
"The cabeceo wasn't working..."
She'll smile politely.
She'll smile politely.
One is infinitely patient with one's partner, and convinces her she can do no wrong
On the other hand, I sometimes get cross with myself.
However, I have so far resisted the urge to tut.
So at least I've done the least I could do.
We often talk about what one could, should, or must do in a given situation.
One is obviously better than I am.
'One' is a gender-neutral, third-person singular pronoun. 'One' is generally someone else.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Two (2)
The nub of the matter.
It takes two to tango.
We probably heard this from the beginning. We get told it many times. We dance together. If we don't dance together, we dance alone. Dancing alone is not tango. It might be something else, but it's not tango.
We have to go into each tanda knowing this. Knowing it in our bones. I hear a lot of people talking about this. They all say the right words. And then a surprising number of them go out onto the dance floor and perform for their partner, rather than dance with them.
It may be the leader, who takes his duty as the 'shaper' of the dance too far and claims all the music for himself, leaving his partner to hang on and try to enjoy the ride.
It may be the follower, who takes every opportunity the leader offers her to decorate, embellish, flick, kick (or stick her heel into an innocent passerby), with no reference to the music or to her partner's dance.
If you don't go into each dance feeling like you're a team, or at least feeling like you might become a team, then what actually is the point? Who's it all for, if it's not for you two, together, at that moment, in that place?
We learn early on that if you don't commit to each step completely, things go wrong. Why does it often take so much longer to learn that we need to commit ourselves to each dance in the same way?
It takes two to tango.
We probably heard this from the beginning. We get told it many times. We dance together. If we don't dance together, we dance alone. Dancing alone is not tango. It might be something else, but it's not tango.
We have to go into each tanda knowing this. Knowing it in our bones. I hear a lot of people talking about this. They all say the right words. And then a surprising number of them go out onto the dance floor and perform for their partner, rather than dance with them.
It may be the leader, who takes his duty as the 'shaper' of the dance too far and claims all the music for himself, leaving his partner to hang on and try to enjoy the ride.
It may be the follower, who takes every opportunity the leader offers her to decorate, embellish, flick, kick (or stick her heel into an innocent passerby), with no reference to the music or to her partner's dance.
If you don't go into each dance feeling like you're a team, or at least feeling like you might become a team, then what actually is the point? Who's it all for, if it's not for you two, together, at that moment, in that place?
We learn early on that if you don't commit to each step completely, things go wrong. Why does it often take so much longer to learn that we need to commit ourselves to each dance in the same way?
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Three (3)
There are three dimensions. Three comprehensible ones, that is. When we start to learn to dance tango we only use two of them. In fact, right at the beginning, we probably only use one. Forwards and backwards. It's enough. And then, we learn to turn and the possibilities expand thousandfold. Our movements are now free in the X and the Y. Floorcraft considerations permitting. And maybe we stop there. We can dance, in those two dimensions. There are infinite possibilities already. I think many people don't realise that a third dimension exists. I think I'm only just becoming aware of the third dimension. Like someone who's spend his life looking at the ground in front of his feet, and now has suddenly noticed the sky.
And I don't mean using the third dimension to bob up and down like a cork with every step. And I don't mean using it to allow a couple to launch each other into the air or perform acrobatics. I mean using it to modulate each step. To provide extra information. To change a sideward 'plonk' step into a smooth sinking into the floor, or to change a slow pivot into an edge-of-the-rollercoaster, edge-of-the-cliff, preparation to dive.
And here's an interesting confluence. Interesting to me, anyway. The ear has three canals responsible for telling us how we're oriented in our three-dimensional space. And the ear is also responsible for allowing us to hear the music. And this prompts me to ask myself a question: how three-dimensionally do I hear the music? I'm told I have good musicality. I feel that I have good musicality. But perhaps I'm complacent, now, and lazy. The music is deep. Compared to the music, I dance shallowly.
Time to listen properly, again. Time to scratch further into the surface.
And I don't mean using the third dimension to bob up and down like a cork with every step. And I don't mean using it to allow a couple to launch each other into the air or perform acrobatics. I mean using it to modulate each step. To provide extra information. To change a sideward 'plonk' step into a smooth sinking into the floor, or to change a slow pivot into an edge-of-the-rollercoaster, edge-of-the-cliff, preparation to dive.
And here's an interesting confluence. Interesting to me, anyway. The ear has three canals responsible for telling us how we're oriented in our three-dimensional space. And the ear is also responsible for allowing us to hear the music. And this prompts me to ask myself a question: how three-dimensionally do I hear the music? I'm told I have good musicality. I feel that I have good musicality. But perhaps I'm complacent, now, and lazy. The music is deep. Compared to the music, I dance shallowly.
Time to listen properly, again. Time to scratch further into the surface.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Four (4)
Corazon. Tangos speak often of the heart. Usually about how it's broken, pained, sad, lonely.
And yet when we dance, our hearts are as close as they can be. Sometimes we can feel the beat of each other's. Each has its own rhythm. Above and beyond (or maybe below and beneath) the compás of the music. Between the rise and fall of the breathing. Personal, but shared.
There are moments, at the top of the music, at the height of a breath, when it feels like your heart may just burst before it beats again. And then it beats again, and a bandoneon sucks the air out of you, and you take a step.
The human heart has four chambers.
And yet when we dance, our hearts are as close as they can be. Sometimes we can feel the beat of each other's. Each has its own rhythm. Above and beyond (or maybe below and beneath) the compás of the music. Between the rise and fall of the breathing. Personal, but shared.
There are moments, at the top of the music, at the height of a breath, when it feels like your heart may just burst before it beats again. And then it beats again, and a bandoneon sucks the air out of you, and you take a step.
The human heart has four chambers.
Friday, 13 April 2012
Five (5)
Sometimes there is the lightest of pressures between palms.
Sometimes the grip is firm and strong.
Some women squeeze their partner's hand when something goes wrong, or maybe when it goes especially right.
Sometimes the hand is flat and horizontal, sometimes it's cupped and vertical.
Occasionally it's painful. More often than not it's another expression of personality. Another level of communication. Another way of being close.
The hand may move or flex or tighten or relax during the dance, or it may be constant and unchanging -- a rock to hold on to.
And as the last note of the music fades away, and we wake from our trance, we often don't release hands for just a few seconds longer. We try to hold on to it.
The human hand has five digits.
Sometimes the grip is firm and strong.
Some women squeeze their partner's hand when something goes wrong, or maybe when it goes especially right.
Sometimes the hand is flat and horizontal, sometimes it's cupped and vertical.
Occasionally it's painful. More often than not it's another expression of personality. Another level of communication. Another way of being close.
The hand may move or flex or tighten or relax during the dance, or it may be constant and unchanging -- a rock to hold on to.
And as the last note of the music fades away, and we wake from our trance, we often don't release hands for just a few seconds longer. We try to hold on to it.
The human hand has five digits.
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Six (6)
"I'm from hither. It's just South of thither."
"Oh, you must know X and Y!"
And it's true surprisingly often. The travelling tanguero will enjoy the 'where are you from' question frequently, and will enjoy watching the most unexpected of connections reveal themselves as the conversation continues.
I enjoy returning home and being able to say to someone that they're known and remembered in a different town, county, country, continent. Some people are hubs for these connections. Some people seem to know everyone. Or if they don't know everyone, everyone knows them.
And the world shrinks a little with each new connection.
Various studies have suggested that there are, on average, roughly six degrees of separation between every person on the planet and every other person on the planet.
"Oh, you must know X and Y!"
And it's true surprisingly often. The travelling tanguero will enjoy the 'where are you from' question frequently, and will enjoy watching the most unexpected of connections reveal themselves as the conversation continues.
I enjoy returning home and being able to say to someone that they're known and remembered in a different town, county, country, continent. Some people are hubs for these connections. Some people seem to know everyone. Or if they don't know everyone, everyone knows them.
And the world shrinks a little with each new connection.
Various studies have suggested that there are, on average, roughly six degrees of separation between every person on the planet and every other person on the planet.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Seven (7)
Feeling lucky? One of those days when you arrive somewhere, you don't really know anybody, but you can't wait. You invite somebody to dance who you haven't seen dancing. If they accept, well, they're obviously feeling lucky (or desperate) themselves. A complete leap of faith. When you go somewhere new and alone, you depend on somebody feeling lucky. Otherwise where would your chance be? Your chance to let everyone see that you're not a stamper, stomper, cruncher, crasher or basher.
I try to take a chance on somebody new, when I get the opportunity. They could be the best dancer in the country, but they still need someone to gamble on them for that first dance.
When the gamble pays off, winning the lottery has nothing on the feeling. (I'm willing to be proven wrong on this one, if the universe insists).
Seven is considered a lucky number in many cultures.
I try to take a chance on somebody new, when I get the opportunity. They could be the best dancer in the country, but they still need someone to gamble on them for that first dance.
When the gamble pays off, winning the lottery has nothing on the feeling. (I'm willing to be proven wrong on this one, if the universe insists).
Seven is considered a lucky number in many cultures.
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Eight (8)
There's magic and joy and sharing in tango, but in order to experience that you need the base requirement of trust. I sometimes wonder that any of you women out there manage to trust any of us men at all. How do you let go and give yourself completely to the moment, as the best of you do with every single tanda?
I've seen some very untrustworthy men recently, whose behaviour prompted me to write a very long and angry post, which I've now deleted. I rewrote it and deleted it again. Suffice it to say that sometimes just taking a breath doesn't seem sufficient.
An Octopus has eight arms, matching the number of tentacles that some men appear to have while dancing.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Nine (9)
Cloud nine: Where you end up after a particularly blissful Di Sarli tanda, perhaps. I'm still at the point where I have to use enough of my brain consciously for navigation that being in this state is relatively rare. But it does happen.
It's why I'm still here.
It's why I'm still here.
Friday, 23 March 2012
Ten (10)
Have you ever danced with anyone while you've been in a bad mood? I have. Most people I know have. I've danced with people who've been in a bad mood. It's never a good idea. But what do you do? Going and cooling off and calming down and chilling out will just take too much time. Tango is meant to be the part of the week that reduces our stress levels, if we can't relax during that then what hope is there?
The worst is when you're in a bad mood because of the person you're dancing with. Mutual politeness might prevent it being mentioned, but she's wound him up by dragging him out for a dance when he was desperately trying to get a glass of water, or he's wound her up by standing in front of her just at the moment she was about to successfully get a nod from the man she's been attempting to dance with all evening.
In all these cases, we're probably dancing with a good friend who has temporarily annoyed us.
We'll get over it.
But it's a pretty sad experience, being party to a grumpy dance. They're another thing you get better at avoiding and preventing. And if not avoiding or preventing, at least recovering from.
Counting to ten is an old technique for keeping calm in the face of aggravation and provocation.
The worst is when you're in a bad mood because of the person you're dancing with. Mutual politeness might prevent it being mentioned, but she's wound him up by dragging him out for a dance when he was desperately trying to get a glass of water, or he's wound her up by standing in front of her just at the moment she was about to successfully get a nod from the man she's been attempting to dance with all evening.
In all these cases, we're probably dancing with a good friend who has temporarily annoyed us.
We'll get over it.
But it's a pretty sad experience, being party to a grumpy dance. They're another thing you get better at avoiding and preventing. And if not avoiding or preventing, at least recovering from.
Counting to ten is an old technique for keeping calm in the face of aggravation and provocation.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
Eleven (11)
The music is distant and tinny, today. My legs feel slow and ponderous and as though they could float away from the ground at any moment. Breathing is laboured and heavy. The connection doesn't always happen. Sometimes it will start this way, and then things will come right. But not always. It's possible to have a bad night. We shouldn't be too mean to ourselves. It doesn't mean we're going to be spending the rest of our lives dancing on the moon.
We'll be back to Earth tomorrow. Or if not then, the day after.
Apollo 11 was the first manned spacecraft to land on the moon.
We'll be back to Earth tomorrow. Or if not then, the day after.
Apollo 11 was the first manned spacecraft to land on the moon.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Twelve (12)
The seasons go by very fast. It doesn't seem like long ago that I could tell people I'd been learning tango for six months or twelve months and they'd smile and nod and look impressed. At some point I began saying '3 years' or 'four years' or 'five years', and people stopped looking impressed and instead simply started nodding their heads, as if to say 'seems about right'. I assume this means I'm following the natural curve of tango progress. At least people don't usually shake their heads in horror, so I suppose I'm not behind or under the curve somewhere.
But the years blur together. When I started, I remember chatting with someone who'd been dancing tango for three years. It seemed like an unimaginable investment of time to me back then. And now, of course, I can see that there's not ever going to be an end to it. Or I think I can see that. Maybe in three years' time I'll feel differently. Three years is a drop in the temporal ocean. Three years just gets you to the point of realising that you've probably just spent three years working on the wrong things and ignoring all the right things. And the cycle repeats every year or two or three.
There are twelve months in a year.
But the years blur together. When I started, I remember chatting with someone who'd been dancing tango for three years. It seemed like an unimaginable investment of time to me back then. And now, of course, I can see that there's not ever going to be an end to it. Or I think I can see that. Maybe in three years' time I'll feel differently. Three years is a drop in the temporal ocean. Three years just gets you to the point of realising that you've probably just spent three years working on the wrong things and ignoring all the right things. And the cycle repeats every year or two or three.
There are twelve months in a year.
Monday, 19 March 2012
Thirteen (13)
What can you do about bad luck? Not much, I think. You can do your best to improve your odds of having accident-free dancing, but you can't ever completely account for the behaviour of others. Who knows who's about to elbow their way into the ronda and tread on everybody's toes? You can slot yourself in ahead of, or behind, or ideally between the most social dancers present, but sooner or later somebody's going to attack you with a hot cup of coffee on the way back from the kitchen or the bar. You can have complete control over your movements and have lightning reflexes, but a slippery patch of floor will trip you up regardless. Hopefully your bad luck doesn't take your partner down with you.
I have a horrible feeling it's contagious, though.
Thirteen is unlucky for some.
I have a horrible feeling it's contagious, though.
Thirteen is unlucky for some.
Friday, 16 March 2012
Fourteen (14)
The poetry is something I'm missing out on.
I don't understand the words. Not as they're being sung. I can look at the lyrics and work them out.
I need to do better at this. I'm missing out on a lot.
When the songs are sung in my ear as we dance, I can feel the poetry, and the shape of what I'm missing.
I'm missing a lot of information. There's often a contrast between the words that are sung and the tune that is played. I'd like to feel that. I feel it in people I dance with who do understand the lyrics.
There are 14 lines in a sonnet.
I don't understand the words. Not as they're being sung. I can look at the lyrics and work them out.
I need to do better at this. I'm missing out on a lot.
When the songs are sung in my ear as we dance, I can feel the poetry, and the shape of what I'm missing.
I'm missing a lot of information. There's often a contrast between the words that are sung and the tune that is played. I'd like to feel that. I feel it in people I dance with who do understand the lyrics.
There are 14 lines in a sonnet.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Fifteen (15)
There's often a bit of point-scoring, isn't there? Some places just seem to encourage it. Some others, even though all the same people attend, are relaxed and unhurried and friendly. Not that a little friendly competition hurts. If it weren't for that, who'd bother getting any better?
It's the unfriendly competition that's the problem. I've seen people actively standing in front of people to block them from the view of someone else. I've seen people hijacked on their way back from the dance floor, before the next tanda has even begun to play. Those who want to play by the rules tend to suffer.
When you win your first point in tennis, you get 15 points on the scoreboard.
It's the unfriendly competition that's the problem. I've seen people actively standing in front of people to block them from the view of someone else. I've seen people hijacked on their way back from the dance floor, before the next tanda has even begun to play. Those who want to play by the rules tend to suffer.
When you win your first point in tennis, you get 15 points on the scoreboard.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Sixteen (16)
Size sometimes matters. But this dance of ours holds another set of apparent contradictions. The largest of people are often the lightest on their feet. The smallest of people can feel the heaviest. If you haven't been watching the dancing carefully enough, it can come as a surprise. It's a beautiful moment when you embrace somebody who looks like they would be blown away by a faint breeze, and they turn out to be anchored to the ground. And you can feel the floor and the shoes and the feet as though they were yours.
There are 16 ounces in a pound.
There are 16 ounces in a pound.
Friday, 9 March 2012
Seventeen (17)
A nice exercise in improvisation. Throw a bit of random into your practice. Every third or fifth or seventh step, go in a different direction than you would normally. Break the patterns. The patterns dig themselves in, you have to fight to break out of them. I do, at least. Maybe in thirty years' time, every direction will feel as natural as every other.
According to some surveys, if people are asked to choose a number between 1 and 20, they choose 17 a disproportionate amount of the time.
According to some surveys, if people are asked to choose a number between 1 and 20, they choose 17 a disproportionate amount of the time.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Eighteen (18)
Freedom from and freedom to. This is what the mirada and the cabeceo offers us all.
Freedom from the creeps and crazies, and from the lead weights and unmusicals.
Freedom to vote with our eyes. To see the whole room, and to make a choice of exactly who you want to dance with at exactly this moment. And they have the freedom to say no, without having to say 'no'.
The voting age in many countries is 18.
Freedom from the creeps and crazies, and from the lead weights and unmusicals.
Freedom to vote with our eyes. To see the whole room, and to make a choice of exactly who you want to dance with at exactly this moment. And they have the freedom to say no, without having to say 'no'.
The voting age in many countries is 18.
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Nineteen (19)
There are times when the dance is a battle of wits.
In a good way.
Like a game of chess or of Go, perhaps.
She refuses to take me up exactly on my suggestion, but slows it down or speeds it up or sometimes sabotages it completely. When it works with the music and doesn't crash me into anyone else on the dance floor, I couldn't be happier.
She might challenge those patterns that I've fallen into.
A wake-up call.
Go is played on a nineteen-by-nineteen board.
In a good way.
Like a game of chess or of Go, perhaps.
She refuses to take me up exactly on my suggestion, but slows it down or speeds it up or sometimes sabotages it completely. When it works with the music and doesn't crash me into anyone else on the dance floor, I couldn't be happier.
She might challenge those patterns that I've fallen into.
A wake-up call.
Go is played on a nineteen-by-nineteen board.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Twenty (20)
Contact lenses. Spectacles. The solutions to short-sightedness at the milonga. Those that wear glasses have their appealing little rituals. The invitation to dance is accepted, the glasses are folded and secreted somewhere on the person or on the table. Occasionally I'm asked to carry them in my pocket. Occasionally they're pushed up to the top of the head. Some people keep wearing them while dancing, which can pose interesting logistical challenges with respect to head position. The dance ends. The glasses-wearer is escorted back to the table on which they can find their glasses. The ritual concludes.
20/20 vision indicates normal human visual acuity.
20/20 vision indicates normal human visual acuity.
Monday, 5 March 2012
Twenty-one (21)
I don't know the difference between sprituality, religion, psychic powers, paranormal occurrences. Well, I do. But to me they all make the same sense. In the end, I can't see that we're more than just the sum of electrical impulses flashing through the brain.
But when those moments happen. Those moments. You know the ones. When they happen, and the only thing that's in your head is the music and the movement and the conversation with your partner, I think that must be what people mean when they talk about the soul. For those moments, perhaps we really are more than the sum of our parts. More than the sum of our partnership.
The soul was measured as weighing 21 grams by Dr Duncan McDougall in 1907.
But when those moments happen. Those moments. You know the ones. When they happen, and the only thing that's in your head is the music and the movement and the conversation with your partner, I think that must be what people mean when they talk about the soul. For those moments, perhaps we really are more than the sum of our parts. More than the sum of our partnership.
The soul was measured as weighing 21 grams by Dr Duncan McDougall in 1907.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Twenty-two (22)
You want to dance, but the quicker you choose to dance with someone the less likely you'll make an informed decision about whether their music will mesh with your music. And with the music.
You want to sit, but to sit means to reject invitations from the people you want to dance with. To sit briefly risks sitting perpetually.
You want to impress the person you're dancing with. But the stronger that desire, the less free and natural is your dance. Limbs stiffen up and movements start to jerk or stutter, or your lead becomes a murmer or a mutter.
Some days, you just can't win.
One definition of Catch-22:
You want to sit, but to sit means to reject invitations from the people you want to dance with. To sit briefly risks sitting perpetually.
You want to impress the person you're dancing with. But the stronger that desire, the less free and natural is your dance. Limbs stiffen up and movements start to jerk or stutter, or your lead becomes a murmer or a mutter.
Some days, you just can't win.
One definition of Catch-22:
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.
Friday, 2 March 2012
Twenty-three (23)
A birthday vals. Secretly quite liked, though protested against, by the birthday celebrant. Always a sweet moment. Sometimes slightly resented, especially if the chosen vals is one that we all want to dance to. And the star of the show, the birthday boy or birthday girl. Not necessarily always the one to be the centre of attention. But this is their moment on their day. A whirlwind of partners who have maybe fifteen seconds each in which to fulfil their purpose. Their purpose: to make the star shine, look good, feel good.
When you have 23 people in a room, there's a 50% chance that two of them will share the same birthday.
When you have 23 people in a room, there's a 50% chance that two of them will share the same birthday.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Twenty-four (24)
A day without tango?
Not really possible.
No milonga, maybe.
But there's music to listen to in the car, on headphones in the lunch break, on the radio in the evening.
There's a walk to practice whenever we walk. I feel that, as a leader, I have a lucky break in this. I can practice my walk slightly more discreetly than a follower. Who would tend to practice walking backwards. In high heels.
There's a blog or an article or something else to read. Someone's thoughts that I'll have never thought about before. There's therefore something to think about, too.
Arrangements to make, photos to look at, people to coordinate with, muscles to stretch or knead or exercise.
The problem with having a day without dancing, is that it's all too easy to fill it up with too much tango.
There are 24 hours in a day, give or take.
Not really possible.
No milonga, maybe.
But there's music to listen to in the car, on headphones in the lunch break, on the radio in the evening.
There's a walk to practice whenever we walk. I feel that, as a leader, I have a lucky break in this. I can practice my walk slightly more discreetly than a follower. Who would tend to practice walking backwards. In high heels.
There's a blog or an article or something else to read. Someone's thoughts that I'll have never thought about before. There's therefore something to think about, too.
Arrangements to make, photos to look at, people to coordinate with, muscles to stretch or knead or exercise.
The problem with having a day without dancing, is that it's all too easy to fill it up with too much tango.
There are 24 hours in a day, give or take.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Twenty-five (25)
Tango outside the big cities is often sparse. The dedicated few travel between them, like oases in the desert. But our desert consists of motorways and highways and freeways and country roads and coastal roads.
The oases are so refreshing, though, that we make the journeys willingly. Then we worry about our carbon footprints.
The M25 links much of the tango in the South-East of England. And if it doesn't, it links to a motorway that does.
The oases are so refreshing, though, that we make the journeys willingly. Then we worry about our carbon footprints.
The M25 links much of the tango in the South-East of England. And if it doesn't, it links to a motorway that does.
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Twenty-six (26)
I'm now sensitive to twinges, pains and glitches in my body in a way that I never was before tango. The neck, shoulder, back, leg. Any pain might be the beginning of the end of something that's such a huge part of my life.
And more than any of the above, it's the foot that worries me. It's a miracle of evolutionary engineering. The sheer miles I've walked on mine are staggering. And luckily, so far, staggering I'm not.
But it worries me. When your sanity depends on good health, hypochondria can become paralysing.
There are twenty-six bones in the human foot.
And more than any of the above, it's the foot that worries me. It's a miracle of evolutionary engineering. The sheer miles I've walked on mine are staggering. And luckily, so far, staggering I'm not.
But it worries me. When your sanity depends on good health, hypochondria can become paralysing.
There are twenty-six bones in the human foot.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Pausa
I think we've reached the end of a phrase.
This seems a good time to hold position for a beat or two.
But we'll move again soon.
Count on it.
This seems a good time to hold position for a beat or two.
But we'll move again soon.
Count on it.
Zero
Of course, for every one of the good days you have another day when you feel like a zero. Invisible and insignificant. Those are the days you couldn't sleep, you found the cat had been sick in your shoes, and the trains were delayed. You got to the milonga late, stressed and with only your second-favourite pair of shoes to comfort you.
On those days, you can feel the don't-dance-with-me emanating from you in waves. And, because life's like that, people don't dance with you. You don't get asked. Your invitations are refused. The tandas you do manage to dance by hook, by crook, or by calling in favours are grudging and a drudge. You get trodden on and kicked. You feel elegant as a baby giraffe.
Don't remember those days.
Well, remember enough to learn from them what you can.
Don't leave shoes and cats together.
Don't drink too much coffee before going to bed.
Take an earlier train.
But the things you can't learn from, let them go. Remember the good days, or minutes, or seconds.
On those days, you can feel the don't-dance-with-me emanating from you in waves. And, because life's like that, people don't dance with you. You don't get asked. Your invitations are refused. The tandas you do manage to dance by hook, by crook, or by calling in favours are grudging and a drudge. You get trodden on and kicked. You feel elegant as a baby giraffe.
Don't remember those days.
Well, remember enough to learn from them what you can.
Don't leave shoes and cats together.
Don't drink too much coffee before going to bed.
Take an earlier train.
But the things you can't learn from, let them go. Remember the good days, or minutes, or seconds.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Yesterday
Or maybe the day before.
I can remember the feel of the movement. Sometimes, often, I can't remember the music exactly. But I remember the feel of the music. Smooth or jagged or elegant or frantic or a little bit of each. I have sudden, very vivid flashbacks to individual moments, seconds, milliseconds. Maybe it was a moment of particular togetherness, or a moment of particularly joyful surprise. Or a little bit of each.
Some of these echoes last a long time.
I can remember the feel of the movement. Sometimes, often, I can't remember the music exactly. But I remember the feel of the music. Smooth or jagged or elegant or frantic or a little bit of each. I have sudden, very vivid flashbacks to individual moments, seconds, milliseconds. Maybe it was a moment of particular togetherness, or a moment of particularly joyful surprise. Or a little bit of each.
Some of these echoes last a long time.
Monday, 20 February 2012
X-Factor
Some people have this thing. They just magnetise themselves. The world organises itself to revolve around them for a little while. It's fascinating to watch, and it's interesting to try to resist it. We don't quite queue for dances, but around these people we do the closest thing to it. We wait until the tanda ends and look hopefully at them. From the opposite side of the room, from a vantage point in the doorway, from a couple of chairs down. They choose someone to dance with, and then the room shuffles around as the rest of us become aware of each others' existence again.
Some of them don't even notice they have it.
But here's the good part.
Everyone has days when they're the one with it. You wake up in a good mood, you have a lazy day and relax or else get a lot done and feel on top of the world. You get to the milonga and everything goes right. From the first moment to the last bars of La Cumparsita. Those are the days when the X-Factor came to visit.
And you probably didn't even notice you had it.
Some of them don't even notice they have it.
But here's the good part.
Everyone has days when they're the one with it. You wake up in a good mood, you have a lazy day and relax or else get a lot done and feel on top of the world. You get to the milonga and everything goes right. From the first moment to the last bars of La Cumparsita. Those are the days when the X-Factor came to visit.
And you probably didn't even notice you had it.
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Wellness
I think tango improves my health. It's not a workout, as such. I don't think it matches up to the gym.
But it's a meditation. You put yourself somewhere else. Your attention is focused on a single thing. There's no spare brainpower to think of anything else. Not for me, at least. For a little while, you can't afford to have work worries pop into your brain or money problems barge themselves into your consciousness. It's meditation for those who think meditation sounds too much like hard work.
Somehow, the burdens seem less heavy and the barriers seem less significant at the end of a milonga than they did at the beginning.
But it's a meditation. You put yourself somewhere else. Your attention is focused on a single thing. There's no spare brainpower to think of anything else. Not for me, at least. For a little while, you can't afford to have work worries pop into your brain or money problems barge themselves into your consciousness. It's meditation for those who think meditation sounds too much like hard work.
Somehow, the burdens seem less heavy and the barriers seem less significant at the end of a milonga than they did at the beginning.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Value
Is our value as a dancer determined by which visiting teachers we manage to dance with?
I'm surprised by how often the answer to this question appears to be 'yes'.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Uncle
One of the worst sights to see in an evening's dancing? That expression on a woman's face when she realises she's committed herself to ten minutes of pain / drudgery / terror / despair. The expression, over the shoulder of someone who is doubtless oblivious to it, a cry for help that's unlikely to come.
I'm not talking about rolling of eyes or frowns or tutting. I'm talking about something uncontrollable -- a frozen tableau of concentration, as she tries to make sense of the lead / avoid getting kicked or trodden on / avoid kicking anyone else / avoid having her back broken or twisted.
I've seen it on a few men's faces too, but the asymmetric nature of tango means it's less likely. The ladies are often better dancers than the gentlemen. The boys usually have more choice of partner than the girls. The leaders have more control over where they're going than the followers. But it happens.
It's crying uncle. I surrender. A tanda never seems longer.
I'm not talking about rolling of eyes or frowns or tutting. I'm talking about something uncontrollable -- a frozen tableau of concentration, as she tries to make sense of the lead / avoid getting kicked or trodden on / avoid kicking anyone else / avoid having her back broken or twisted.
I've seen it on a few men's faces too, but the asymmetric nature of tango means it's less likely. The ladies are often better dancers than the gentlemen. The boys usually have more choice of partner than the girls. The leaders have more control over where they're going than the followers. But it happens.
It's crying uncle. I surrender. A tanda never seems longer.
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Tells
Some things aren't in the embrace or of the embrace, but live about or above it. Little things. Sometimes you can feel a smile form against the side of your face. Sometimes you can hear a sigh as something in the music moves her. Sometimes you feel a squeeze of your hand in hers ("don't worry about it") when a tiny mistake, misjudgement, miscommunication occurs.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Skill
Almost everyone has some skill that I can admire. I'm impressed by fast footwork. By elegant posture. By pure musicality.
I'm impressed by people who have such an intuitive grasp of the dance and the music that they look like they were born into it.
I'm impressed -- perhaps more impressed -- by people who did not have this free ride into the dance. The people who have worked and worked and struggled and struggled to get through the wall. These people have really earned their place on the dance floor. Often they turn into the very best dancers.
I love to watch people who have skill in using the cabeceo to negotiate dances -- perhaps the only bit of choreography involved in tango. She looks at him, he looks at her, she looks away. Later he comes back to her when the music is different, or the room has cooled down or warmed up. This time they smile and nod at each other and it all comes together.
Sometimes I watch someone transform herself into a different dancer with every tanda and every partner, and yet keep an essence of herself that's constant. Something that makes her her. It amazes me.
In admiring all of this, I realise I have barely scratched the surface.
I'm impressed by people who have such an intuitive grasp of the dance and the music that they look like they were born into it.
I'm impressed -- perhaps more impressed -- by people who did not have this free ride into the dance. The people who have worked and worked and struggled and struggled to get through the wall. These people have really earned their place on the dance floor. Often they turn into the very best dancers.
I love to watch people who have skill in using the cabeceo to negotiate dances -- perhaps the only bit of choreography involved in tango. She looks at him, he looks at her, she looks away. Later he comes back to her when the music is different, or the room has cooled down or warmed up. This time they smile and nod at each other and it all comes together.
Sometimes I watch someone transform herself into a different dancer with every tanda and every partner, and yet keep an essence of herself that's constant. Something that makes her her. It amazes me.
In admiring all of this, I realise I have barely scratched the surface.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Reduction
Everything can be reduced.
Every movement can be taken down into a smaller version of itself. Or into a slower version of itself.
I always reach the limit of communication before I reach the physical limit.
But I will continue to search for the infinitesimal.
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Quarter
The first song finishes. You've just danced your first ever dance with a visiting tanguera. Perhaps it was a sweet and delicate Fresedo track. Or maybe Donato. Perhaps Biagi. Were you feeling confident?
This may be the first time you exchange a few words with her, beyond 'hello'. By now, you both know whether this thing is going to work or not. Maybe you don't quite yet have each other's measure. Maybe you do. I know one leader who can find the core of a new partner's musicality within minutes. It takes me longer. I still spend too much time showing off my musicality and only slowly pick up on hers. I know there are others who drone on for a long time before realising that she has anything musical to say at all. But wherever you fit on that sliding scale, you're wiser now than you were three minutes ago. And even if you're not, she is.
And you've got three more songs left. Three more chances to get to know her. Three more chances to change, adapt, find who she is and what she hears and how she likes to move. Three times three minutes.
The introduction to the next Fresedo or Donato or Biagi track is nearly over.
You embrace each other again, and learn.
This may be the first time you exchange a few words with her, beyond 'hello'. By now, you both know whether this thing is going to work or not. Maybe you don't quite yet have each other's measure. Maybe you do. I know one leader who can find the core of a new partner's musicality within minutes. It takes me longer. I still spend too much time showing off my musicality and only slowly pick up on hers. I know there are others who drone on for a long time before realising that she has anything musical to say at all. But wherever you fit on that sliding scale, you're wiser now than you were three minutes ago. And even if you're not, she is.
And you've got three more songs left. Three more chances to get to know her. Three more chances to change, adapt, find who she is and what she hears and how she likes to move. Three times three minutes.
The introduction to the next Fresedo or Donato or Biagi track is nearly over.
You embrace each other again, and learn.
Friday, 10 February 2012
Practicalities
Money. Keys. Credit card. Phone.
Where to put them while I'm dancing? I can't carry them around with me. Feels like baggage.
The first time I'm robbed I imagine that will change. I've been lucky, maybe.
I'll keep trusting the room, until the room proves to me that I shouldn't.
Where to put them while I'm dancing? I can't carry them around with me. Feels like baggage.
The first time I'm robbed I imagine that will change. I've been lucky, maybe.
I'll keep trusting the room, until the room proves to me that I shouldn't.
Thursday, 9 February 2012
Open
Tango is a drug. There are many people addicted to it.
It's an acquired taste. As with cigarettes or beer, you have to work to create your own dependency on it. At least I did. It wasn't love at first sight for me. Or second or third. Just a class I went to each week.
A fun class - yes.
An interesting class - yes.
Something that stole my heart away - no.
Why?
The music - baffling.
The invasion of personal space - a barrier.
The collisions - embarrassing.
What gets you through that?
Enthusiasm of the teachers.
Forgiving fellow students.
An open mind.
If you can apply that open mind despite the obstacles, then the dance opens up to you. And it's bigger on the inside.
It's an acquired taste. As with cigarettes or beer, you have to work to create your own dependency on it. At least I did. It wasn't love at first sight for me. Or second or third. Just a class I went to each week.
A fun class - yes.
An interesting class - yes.
Something that stole my heart away - no.
Why?
The music - baffling.
The invasion of personal space - a barrier.
The collisions - embarrassing.
What gets you through that?
Enthusiasm of the teachers.
Forgiving fellow students.
An open mind.
If you can apply that open mind despite the obstacles, then the dance opens up to you. And it's bigger on the inside.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Nuance
One of my favourite people to dance with does this: she turns an ocho into a walk. I wait for a single langorous step and instead I get a little corrida. Five steps for the price of one.
Another favourite partner will make me wait. And wait. And just when the nagging suspicion that I've failed to communicate my intention to her begins to turn into a full-fledged doubt, she'll move forwards. So, so slowly. Like a rose growing in time lapse photography.
Another: the step forward is strong and deliberate and then the final part of the pivot to turn her hips towards me is like a sigh. A reluctance to complete the movement.
I lied a little. These are from the same partner, during the same tanda. Don't you get bored of the same dance, day after day? ask friends. How can we? Every moment is like standing between two mirrors, with an infinity of reflections, except every single reflection can be a different choice.
Another favourite partner will make me wait. And wait. And just when the nagging suspicion that I've failed to communicate my intention to her begins to turn into a full-fledged doubt, she'll move forwards. So, so slowly. Like a rose growing in time lapse photography.
Another: the step forward is strong and deliberate and then the final part of the pivot to turn her hips towards me is like a sigh. A reluctance to complete the movement.
I lied a little. These are from the same partner, during the same tanda. Don't you get bored of the same dance, day after day? ask friends. How can we? Every moment is like standing between two mirrors, with an infinity of reflections, except every single reflection can be a different choice.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Mathematics
So it starts at 8pm and ends at midnight? 4 hours of dancing, if we barge our way in as the doors open.
Tandas of four tangos, or three milongas, or three valses. What's that? Ten or fifteen minutes per tanda? Let's say five tandas an hour. Twenty tandas altogether. I'll dance with my partner for five of them, let's say. Just for the sake of argument.
Fifteen tandas left. How many people at the milonga? Maybe a hundred. Okay, so I lead, I don't follow. Roughly fifty potential partners throughout the evening. There are five there whose dance makes me deliriously happy or makes me contentedly melt. Ten tandas left. And there are many, many who feel the music and dance with the whole of their hearts and and and. Far more than ten of those. But I need to dance with somebody I've never danced with before, or someone I've not danced with for a while. I need to dance with someone who's beginning but promising, or beginning but struggling, or experienced but struggling, or having a bad night or bad week or bad month, or having an exceptionally good night or week or month. I need to be brave and ask somebody who terrifies me. I have to be kind and accept the cabeceo from somebody who's terrified of me. The numbers break down. The equation doesn't balance. We need more time, longer milongas. Time to sit and think and listen and watch (with smiles on our faces), rather than stuff our faces with chocolate all night.
I'm spoilt.
Maybe I need to let the numbers sort themselves out. There's always tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Tandas of four tangos, or three milongas, or three valses. What's that? Ten or fifteen minutes per tanda? Let's say five tandas an hour. Twenty tandas altogether. I'll dance with my partner for five of them, let's say. Just for the sake of argument.
Fifteen tandas left. How many people at the milonga? Maybe a hundred. Okay, so I lead, I don't follow. Roughly fifty potential partners throughout the evening. There are five there whose dance makes me deliriously happy or makes me contentedly melt. Ten tandas left. And there are many, many who feel the music and dance with the whole of their hearts and and and. Far more than ten of those. But I need to dance with somebody I've never danced with before, or someone I've not danced with for a while. I need to dance with someone who's beginning but promising, or beginning but struggling, or experienced but struggling, or having a bad night or bad week or bad month, or having an exceptionally good night or week or month. I need to be brave and ask somebody who terrifies me. I have to be kind and accept the cabeceo from somebody who's terrified of me. The numbers break down. The equation doesn't balance. We need more time, longer milongas. Time to sit and think and listen and watch (with smiles on our faces), rather than stuff our faces with chocolate all night.
I'm spoilt.
Maybe I need to let the numbers sort themselves out. There's always tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Leaving
Dragging yourself away from a milonga, a tea dance, a práctica. It's the hardest and often the sweetest part. A dozen, a score, a hundred people who can't quite bring themselves to surrender to real life again.
Perhaps twenty will plunge out into the night, like jumping into the cold sea. The quicker they do it, the easier it is.
Another small group will drag their tango out with them for a while, to a pub or a restaurant, for drinks or eats or treats. A little mutual commiseration that the weekend's over and the work's about to begin again.
Some will stay to help with the tidying up, or to exchange notes with the DJ, or to simply sit a while and watch the room empty out. Unable to tear themselves away.
When we finally get to the car, or home, or on the train, we start to dream about the next time we'll all meet.
Perhaps twenty will plunge out into the night, like jumping into the cold sea. The quicker they do it, the easier it is.
Another small group will drag their tango out with them for a while, to a pub or a restaurant, for drinks or eats or treats. A little mutual commiseration that the weekend's over and the work's about to begin again.
Some will stay to help with the tidying up, or to exchange notes with the DJ, or to simply sit a while and watch the room empty out. Unable to tear themselves away.
When we finally get to the car, or home, or on the train, we start to dream about the next time we'll all meet.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Kinks
Everyone has their kinkiness. To dance with someone who doesn't, is like dancing with an airbrushed model. It can be beautiful, but it won't feel real. It's rare to dance with anyone utterly kinkless, for which I'm grateful. I think those that achieve kinklessness are those who have pursued some goal of technical excellence and have sacrificed their own dancing personalities to it.
Some go the other way, of course. Too much kink, too little technique. When that happens, you just have to hang on for the ride. It can be fun. It can be a nightmare. It's not tango though.
The right amount of kinkiness? Different for everyone, I'm sure. For me, the right amount is just enough to make me smile or chuckle or gasp in surprise. The perfect amount is when that happens between the two of you. If the watchers (and the judges and juries) know what the joke is, the joke's too big.
Some go the other way, of course. Too much kink, too little technique. When that happens, you just have to hang on for the ride. It can be fun. It can be a nightmare. It's not tango though.
The right amount of kinkiness? Different for everyone, I'm sure. For me, the right amount is just enough to make me smile or chuckle or gasp in surprise. The perfect amount is when that happens between the two of you. If the watchers (and the judges and juries) know what the joke is, the joke's too big.
Friday, 3 February 2012
Judge, Jury, ...
They're often lined up along one wall, watching, approving, disapproving, dismissing. They turn social tango into performance just by their presence. They often exchange whispered comments as couples dance by.
I think they should smile more often.
I think they should smile more often.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Innocence
Tango innocence is lost in a crushing revelation. It's a moment when you feel the heart of the dance for the first time, and the world goes giddy. It's crushing, because at that same moment you realise that you didn't even know you were missing anything up to now.
I look back now on that moment -- that first time I felt that I was really dancing. And of course I wasn't. I had nothing more than my toes on the first step of the ladder. In five years time, I'll no doubt look back and have exactly the same opinion on where I am now.
I hope so.
I look back now on that moment -- that first time I felt that I was really dancing. And of course I wasn't. I had nothing more than my toes on the first step of the ladder. In five years time, I'll no doubt look back and have exactly the same opinion on where I am now.
I hope so.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Hate
I hate not getting to dance with the people I want to dance with.
I hate having to dance with people I don't want to dance with.
I hate not having enough space on the dance floor.
I hate it when people take up too much space on the dance floor.
I hate it when people don't have a sense of humour about tango.
I hate it when people don't take their tango seriously.
I hate it when the venue looks cheap and nasty.
I hate it when it's expensive to get in.
I hate seeing people failing to connect to the music.
I hate it when modern music is played.
(Working title: Hypocrisy).
I hate having to dance with people I don't want to dance with.
I hate not having enough space on the dance floor.
I hate it when people take up too much space on the dance floor.
I hate it when people don't have a sense of humour about tango.
I hate it when people don't take their tango seriously.
I hate it when the venue looks cheap and nasty.
I hate it when it's expensive to get in.
I hate seeing people failing to connect to the music.
I hate it when modern music is played.
(Working title: Hypocrisy).
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Generosity
It's hard to dance tango if you're selfish. It's also easy to have selfish moments when you're at a milonga. Perhaps it's even necessary to have those moments. Otherwise, we'd all be perpetually beholden to those who use guilt as an alternative to the cabeceo.
At some point between selfishly avoiding eye contact with those we don't want to dance with at the moment, and taking up the embrace to dance with somebody we do want to dance with right now, we have to switch off from 'me' mode and switch into 'she' or 'he' mode.
The best amongst us can bring this generosity to bear on almost every partner they dance with.
The very best can even do so with the selfish ones.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Foreign
There are visitors at the milonga. Strangers from a strange land, or maybe just strangers from one town down the road. You might not notice them at first, but they take a few steps on the dance floor and all eyes are on them. They must know they're the centre of attention, but they look cool and calm and take their time.
All the leaders in the room want to dance with her, because she closes her eyes and half-smiles and walks as though the world will make way for her.
All the followers in the room want to dance with him because he makes way for the world. He pauses, as whirling dervishes scythe past. He keeps her from the flicks and kicks and waist-high stilettos.
We wish we could tell them that, no, we're not all knuckleheads here. But they will make their own judgement.
We hope they'll come back.
We think we need them.
All the leaders in the room want to dance with her, because she closes her eyes and half-smiles and walks as though the world will make way for her.
All the followers in the room want to dance with him because he makes way for the world. He pauses, as whirling dervishes scythe past. He keeps her from the flicks and kicks and waist-high stilettos.
We wish we could tell them that, no, we're not all knuckleheads here. But they will make their own judgement.
We hope they'll come back.
We think we need them.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Edification
Taking a compliment -- without being a complete arse -- is an art.
I feel I've still not grown out of my 'complete arse' phase.
I'm certainly not approaching art.
On average, I achieve one out of three of these.
My all-time best effort was two out of three.
I aspire to the art. I expect I'm an arse.
I feel I've still not grown out of my 'complete arse' phase.
I'm certainly not approaching art.
- Take the compliment with a smile. Not a smug one.
- Return the compliment. Not with a glib or hollow one.
- Be glad that somebody had something good to say about you. Don't believe your own publicity.
On average, I achieve one out of three of these.
My all-time best effort was two out of three.
I aspire to the art. I expect I'm an arse.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Damage
If it hurts when you do this, stop doing this. If it's painful to do that, don't do that.
But who listens to doctors when this is what you love or that is what makes you happy? There must be some other answer. Can't I do this a bit more gently, maybe? Or maybe I'll cut down on the amount of that that I do.
I'll go out dancing, but I'll only dance a few tandas. I'll come home early. I'll watch and listen when normally I'd be out on the floor.
And then, thankfully, you come up with a logical answer that means you can carry on without changing any behaviour at all: It must be painful only because I'm doing it wrong. I'll practice more.
You rub your foot or your knee or your back or your shoulder or your neck and wince, happily.
But who listens to doctors when this is what you love or that is what makes you happy? There must be some other answer. Can't I do this a bit more gently, maybe? Or maybe I'll cut down on the amount of that that I do.
I'll go out dancing, but I'll only dance a few tandas. I'll come home early. I'll watch and listen when normally I'd be out on the floor.
And then, thankfully, you come up with a logical answer that means you can carry on without changing any behaviour at all: It must be painful only because I'm doing it wrong. I'll practice more.
You rub your foot or your knee or your back or your shoulder or your neck and wince, happily.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Confluence
I do like going to a new venue. I like the moment when you park the car, knowing you're in the right street, but nowhere leaps out at you saying 'The milonga's here, come on in'. I like the underground feeling. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never stumble on it.
And then, standing in the street staring at blank walls, you have an idea. You look around. Sure enough, someone's walking the streets clutching a shoe bag. Here's another one. They converge on a doorway. You approach it hesitantly.
Then there's the sound. You can only experience it once in each place. That first time you hear the music echoing down unfamiliar hallways and corridors. It reassures you that you're okay, you're in the right place, your journey's been worthwhile.
So all in a line, like the Pied Piper's children, you follow the sound.
And then, standing in the street staring at blank walls, you have an idea. You look around. Sure enough, someone's walking the streets clutching a shoe bag. Here's another one. They converge on a doorway. You approach it hesitantly.
Then there's the sound. You can only experience it once in each place. That first time you hear the music echoing down unfamiliar hallways and corridors. It reassures you that you're okay, you're in the right place, your journey's been worthwhile.
So all in a line, like the Pied Piper's children, you follow the sound.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Breathe
Take a breath. Pause.
Sometimes you synchronise with each other, other times you don't.
One day the music makes you sigh.
Sometimes as slow as a snore.
Occasionally forget to breathe at all.
A different day. The same moment, to the millisecond, in the same music makes you gasp.
Breath as fast as pistons in a steam engine.
Oxygen can make you high.
How can music recorded eighty, ninety, a hundred years ago still hold a surprise?
Every time you hear it?
Sometimes you synchronise with each other, other times you don't.
One day the music makes you sigh.
Sometimes as slow as a snore.
Occasionally forget to breathe at all.
A different day. The same moment, to the millisecond, in the same music makes you gasp.
Breath as fast as pistons in a steam engine.
Oxygen can make you high.
How can music recorded eighty, ninety, a hundred years ago still hold a surprise?
Every time you hear it?
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Arms
It's all about the hug, the embrace, the connection. For a few minutes, you define the world between you and your partner. Everything that happens outside that circle happens on a different planet.
Oh, the other planets have gravity. They affect each other. But when it all works perfectly they share a common orbit, and you can give all your attention to shaping your own little world. And your partner populates it with all the things that make you smile and cry and laugh and hope. And she turns a world into paradise.
Until the music ends, the arms release each other, the circle breaks.
Sometimes the hug remains in the body a long, long time. I've carried some with me for years. I hope to carry them a long time still.
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