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.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
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).
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