The final approach to the Memorial Day festival begins with a special guest teacher:
El Pulpo. In English, The Octopus.
Everyone talks about his fancy-leg style. Ganchos, sacadas, paradas, things he makes up.
Partners wrap their legs around one another, pretzel and pivot this way and that. Occasionally they take a step. Much of the time they stand on one foot, messing around with their intertwined legs.
Very tricky.
Very intricate.
Very dependent on balance.
One false move and we all fall down.
Of course I’m a wreck. I am not eating. Or talking. Or breathing, really. Just waiting. Also starving. At precisely the time I sent in my (very late) registration, the stomach closed for business.
By some mischance, I arrive at The Merc early. The hosts, Nick and Tara, are here. There are CDs for sale, DVDs, shoes. Flyers for the workshops here, more flyers for workshops in
A man sits with the shoes. He is not selling, only sitting. He is Pulpo. We exchange an unsmiling look, and here’s the first surprise: He is quiet. Not inscrutable, simply quiet.
The
What will this Pulpo expect? In a grainy publicity photo on the flyer for this class, his hair is spiky and he is contorting with a woman who appears to be levitating.
What will this Pulpo expect? How much and how fast? I drive myself crazy with questions. His legwork is so complicated, how can anyone master it?
When Javier came, he expected us to know sacadas; that’s where he started. Will this Pulpo expect us to already know ganchos? I have done only a clumsy few with Grisha and The Man on the Wall.
I am not ready for this. I should never have listened to what Nina said about taking hard classes. I should work at my own skill level. I don’t need to stay. There is always The Man on the Wall.
I walk out
but can’t go.
Pulpo has a personal vision, a unique take on the thing that he loves. This exploration of legwork is not some cheap trick. He speaks of it analytically; he develops it with talent and inventiveness and rigor. What is that but genius?
How often do you get to spend time with genius in its own element?
I have spent time in rooms with Joyce Carol Oates, William Sytron, John Barth. In every case they were out of their element. A writer’s genius is nothing to see: they sit at a keyboard, they type. When they read their work, they are two, three, four times removed from their genius, as light from the sun bounces off the moon, filters through curtains, strikes a mirror and falls into your eye.
At midnight Pulpo will perform. He will be in his element then. Meanwhile, we have class.
Pulpo is as quiet in his teaching as in his sitting by shoes. He has economy of movement. He gestures a bit, his voice rises and falls. Luiza is beautiful, with expressive eyebrows, a musical voice and hands that dance to her words.
Luiza translates for Pulpo. He looks students in the eye while he is speaking and while Luiza translates for him. It is as if he were speaking in her language, her voice.
Here’s the second surprise: Pulpo is in his element as a teacher, too.
He encourages us to learn both lead and follow. We learn this standing still, facing one another, a simple exercise.
Shortly after we begin, my partner pronounces this exercise stupid and wanders away. Pulpo, observant, leads me to another lone woman.
I hold out my hands before me. My partner places her hands in mine. When I move my hands to the left, she shifts to that side … to the right, she shifts again. I move one hand forward, so goes her foot. Here, there, back again, her foot follows. We go for a cross front and back, some other thing Pulpo has asked us to try.
I want her to collect but she won’t. I don’t want to make her feel in the wrong, but I need to know why. I ask, “What signal do you need from me to tell you to place your feet side by side?”
She is a beginner. She doesn’t know to collect. I explain what it means; she suggests the signal that will work best for her. We try again. As I place our hands side by side, she collects.
Wow!
I made that happen?
!
I move my hand, bring it back. Look, she did it again! And look, yet again! As I move, so does she. This is magic!
Nina tells the men, “She is your puppet!” Luiza says the same thing.
They are wrong!
With a puppet the limbs dance, but there’s nobody home.
This is much better: My partner is sentient. She is right here. So am I. She is not merely waiting for me to pull her strings; I am not merely pulling her strings.
She is paying attention to me. I am paying attention to her. With my hands I whisper, with her feet she whispers back. We are intent on our whispers.
I am being gentle and slow, taking care not to hurt her by holding too tight, not to startle by moving too fast. I hold her like a big, crystal bowl, not because Nina once said so, but because she is a person who trusts me, and that is a fragile and beautiful thing.
Tamora Pierce has written a series of books in which teens under duress can spin their energies together into magic. From each teen comes a bright thread of light; when the threads comingle, there is magic.
This is magic!
Every move she makes is a miracle, a saying of yes.
No wonder men love this dance!
I have heard the expression “every step is led” so often it has lost all its meaning. It never had much. Of course steps are led. The lead is the boss of me. This is tango. I am the pretty, passive puppet. The girl.
Now, playing the lead under the quiet and observant presence of Pulpo, I understand something new:
There are no puppets here, no puppetmasters. Seeking connection is not the same thing as awaiting instruction. It is not the same as being tensed for action, ready for flight.
I don’t know what more it is, or I don’t know how to say it. But I feel it.
I feel it as a lead, in goodly intent toward my partner.
I feel it as a follower, in respect for my partner.
These are the elements missing from puppetry: kindness, respect. The generous touch.
…
The class goes on. Pulpo extends our skills in a well-planned progression of baby steps, one after another after another and another. They pile up.
By Saturday afternoon we have ganchos. When the last workshop ends Monday night, we are all officially pulped!
Muchas gracias, Pulpo. Muchas gracias, Luiza.
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