Wednesday, August 29
I can't believe it. Cinderella is going to miss the ball again.
I got shut out of the Memorial Day Festival. Waited too long to register. This time, I took precautions. I registered right after the Memorial Day festival ended.
Clothes are picked out. Eight milongas. Don't think that didn't take some planning.
Haircut: check. Cool shoes: check. Tin of IDanceTango.com mints: check.
Just one thing doesn't check out: the bones of my right foot.
Wednesday night, opening night of prefestival activities, I take both classes. Then comes the milonga.
My right foot is killing me, but it has been giving me grief for months. This is the festival. If I'm going to push it, now's the time. I can pay the piper later.
A nice out-of-towner asks for a dance. The first step we take, something gives way. Every step after crunches and grinds. By the end of the second song, I am lurching.
It is rude to break a tanda. I apologize profusely to my partner. I thank him for the dance. Then I remember "thank you" means "go to hell" in tangospeak, and I apologize profusely again.
I have been nursing this foot since a climbing incident last fall. All I wanted was to get through the year or, barring that, this festival. Then I would go to a doctor.
Best laid plans and all that. My appt is Thursday.
Grrr.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tango for Peace from TigersTango
This morning at sunrise in the Old City of Jerusalem, a Palestinian and a Jewess ascended the Temple Mount and proceeded to dance a tango counterclockwise around the Noble Sanctuary. The couple, Mo Salaam y Ahava Levi danced in a close embrace style known as milonguero or salon. ... Read more (From AP, via Tigers Tango)
Monday, August 27, 2007
For Eden Raine, Age 18 Months
The Marlboro Man.
That’s what we called him. It was the moustache, not the macho.
The shaggy hair. Worn face, always tan. Bright eyes. Inevitable jeans.
One week ago today at the Blue Ice practica, he talked about ice skating with enthusiasm. He talked about his grandkids with pride. He talked about Lee with fondness.
During the practica he coached and taught and encouraged. At one point, teaching a new step, he reached down to gently push his partner’s leg into position. There is one man in a thousand who could get away with something like that, one man in a million who could make his partner smile as he did.
Later that night, Jim danced with the new girl from Nina’s class, the one suffering a serious case of nerves. He has done the same for many beginners, afraid of their own shadows, of their leads.
It is a sign of his grace that he did not make beginners feel he was doing community service.
Last fall he did the same for me.
“What did you do to get that guy to dance with you?” C, another beginner, demanded.
Among beginning followers, Jim was a hot commodity: easygoing, trustworthy, kind. A little talky, but that’s not a bad thing when you’re an anxious beginner slammed up against a stranger.
If C had only known the truth. Jim spent the whole tanda trying every trick in the book—without luck--to help me gain some semblance of balance.
That night, I set my sights on a goal: I would work on my balance until Jim praised it. Then I would know I had arrived.
I practiced Eleven Perfect Steps. Hours and hours, miles and miles, months and months of walking practice in killer high heels.
Finally: It’s midwinter, Jim and I find ourselves in a class together. As we are practicing a step, he says something that sounds complimentary. But the teacher is speaking, and I am tuning Jim out.
Later, as we are changing our shoes, I say hopefully, “Did you say I have good balance?”
He looks at me, puzzled. “No,” he says.
Grrr.
Months pass. I walk and walk. If I have to walk a million miles, I will do this. The Man on the Wall keeps me company, then goes away. I forget about Jim. My focus changes: mastery, not praise.
Six months after that midwinter class, one week ago today, at the Blue Ice, after a mini-volcada, Jim said, I can try that with you because of your balance.
A small comment in passing. One of the everyday kindnesses Jim scattered about.
If a pinch of salt can flavor the pot, then Tango Colorado is all the more decent and humane a community for having Jim in it.
Tuesday night, when Tango Colorado meets at the Turn, we’ll tell one another our stories about Jim. Friday at his funeral, we’ll hear stories from family and friends. All of the stories will say the same thing: Where you sow love, love grows.
Jeff Brennan, president of Tango Colorado, says:
“Jim was a great guy who always had a twinkle in his eye, which those who knew him understood mirrored the twinkle in his soul.”
Eden Raine, age 18 months, was born much too soon. Her parents and grown-up friends would gladly cut a dolly-size chunk out of our hearts to implant in her chest, if that would help.
It would not. Eden Raine is going to need another baby’s heart.
Blessing you, Eden Raine: Through the lovingkindness of strangers, may you receive a heart sown with love. May it grow big and strong, and you with it. As you reap may you sow. May you twinkle as brightly as the Marlboro Man.
In love we live on.
Live on, Jim Shetterly. Live on, Eden Raine.
That’s what we called him. It was the moustache, not the macho.
The shaggy hair. Worn face, always tan. Bright eyes. Inevitable jeans.
One week ago today at the Blue Ice practica, he talked about ice skating with enthusiasm. He talked about his grandkids with pride. He talked about Lee with fondness.
During the practica he coached and taught and encouraged. At one point, teaching a new step, he reached down to gently push his partner’s leg into position. There is one man in a thousand who could get away with something like that, one man in a million who could make his partner smile as he did.
Later that night, Jim danced with the new girl from Nina’s class, the one suffering a serious case of nerves. He has done the same for many beginners, afraid of their own shadows, of their leads.
It is a sign of his grace that he did not make beginners feel he was doing community service.
Last fall he did the same for me.
“What did you do to get that guy to dance with you?” C, another beginner, demanded.
Among beginning followers, Jim was a hot commodity: easygoing, trustworthy, kind. A little talky, but that’s not a bad thing when you’re an anxious beginner slammed up against a stranger.
If C had only known the truth. Jim spent the whole tanda trying every trick in the book—without luck--to help me gain some semblance of balance.
That night, I set my sights on a goal: I would work on my balance until Jim praised it. Then I would know I had arrived.
I practiced Eleven Perfect Steps. Hours and hours, miles and miles, months and months of walking practice in killer high heels.
Finally: It’s midwinter, Jim and I find ourselves in a class together. As we are practicing a step, he says something that sounds complimentary. But the teacher is speaking, and I am tuning Jim out.
Later, as we are changing our shoes, I say hopefully, “Did you say I have good balance?”
He looks at me, puzzled. “No,” he says.
Grrr.
Months pass. I walk and walk. If I have to walk a million miles, I will do this. The Man on the Wall keeps me company, then goes away. I forget about Jim. My focus changes: mastery, not praise.
Six months after that midwinter class, one week ago today, at the Blue Ice, after a mini-volcada, Jim said, I can try that with you because of your balance.
A small comment in passing. One of the everyday kindnesses Jim scattered about.
If a pinch of salt can flavor the pot, then Tango Colorado is all the more decent and humane a community for having Jim in it.
Tuesday night, when Tango Colorado meets at the Turn, we’ll tell one another our stories about Jim. Friday at his funeral, we’ll hear stories from family and friends. All of the stories will say the same thing: Where you sow love, love grows.
Jeff Brennan, president of Tango Colorado, says:
“Jim was a great guy who always had a twinkle in his eye, which those who knew him understood mirrored the twinkle in his soul.”
***
Eden Raine, age 18 months, was born much too soon. Her parents and grown-up friends would gladly cut a dolly-size chunk out of our hearts to implant in her chest, if that would help.
It would not. Eden Raine is going to need another baby’s heart.
Blessing you, Eden Raine: Through the lovingkindness of strangers, may you receive a heart sown with love. May it grow big and strong, and you with it. As you reap may you sow. May you twinkle as brightly as the Marlboro Man.
In love we live on.
Live on, Jim Shetterly. Live on, Eden Raine.
In Memorium, Jim Shetterly
Dear Members and Friends,
It is with great sadness that we inform you that Jim Shetterly, a dear friend of Tango Colorado and a close personal friend of many of us in the community, died suddenly this last weekend while hiking. The cause is thought to have been a heart attack, but full details are not yet known.
Jim was a great guy who always had a twinkle in his eye, which those who knew him understood mirrored the twinkle in his soul. He will be sorely missed, and we extend our heartfelt condolences to his loved ones.
Sincerely, Jeffrey Brenman, for Tango Colorado
For more on Jim, click here.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Word You Are Looking for Is ...
The word you are looking for, my Briliant Intellectual Spiritual Guru friend tells me, is "communion."
I am whining, yet again, about the whole passionate-seduction-erotic-submission-talk that surrounds tango.
When I tell my friends "It's not sex!" they smile knowingly. They think I protest too much.
I don't protest enough.
Our culture suffers from poverty of language. When it comes to the varieties of human connection, we have the vocabulary of Tarzan.
Language shapes thought. If the only words we have to express concepts like connection or intimacy come laden with sexual overtones, then our thoughts can only lead there.
Words are the walls of Schrödinger's box. Tango is the cat.
The word I am looking for right this minute is ....
(Someone gave me a book "Women Who Think Too Much." I need "Women Who Philosophize Too Much When They Ought to Be Working.")
I am whining, yet again, about the whole passionate-seduction-erotic-submission-talk that surrounds tango.
When I tell my friends "It's not sex!" they smile knowingly. They think I protest too much.
I don't protest enough.
Our culture suffers from poverty of language. When it comes to the varieties of human connection, we have the vocabulary of Tarzan.
Language shapes thought. If the only words we have to express concepts like connection or intimacy come laden with sexual overtones, then our thoughts can only lead there.
Words are the walls of Schrödinger's box. Tango is the cat.
The word I am looking for right this minute is ....
(Someone gave me a book "Women Who Think Too Much." I need "Women Who Philosophize Too Much When They Ought to Be Working.")
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
It Takes Three to Tango
Tango is not sex. It is singing.
Pugliese's orchestra sings. Grisha and I sing with our muscles and bones.
If there is intimacy and passion here, it is not between Grisha and me. It is between Grisha-and-me on the one hand and Pugliese's whole orchestra on the other.
It takes three to tango.
Pugliese's orchestra sings. Grisha and I sing with our muscles and bones.
If there is intimacy and passion here, it is not between Grisha and me. It is between Grisha-and-me on the one hand and Pugliese's whole orchestra on the other.
It takes three to tango.
Monday, August 20, 2007
My Middle Is Sagging Badly
I could use a few sit-ups, but that’s not the problem.
The problem is with this blog.
When I was in the seventh grade, my teacher read aloud a poem called The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. A sailing ship is adrift. For most of the poem, no wind blows. The sailors strive to survive, fight, go mad, shrivel up from thirst and die. At the end, only one is left, the one who set the whole thing off by offending the gods. Years later, he is the ancient mariner, a nutjob telling his story to strangers, telling his truth in rhyme.
Beginnings are mystery and promise, endings resolution and promise. These are easy to conceive and to write. Middles tend to sag. Middles are complications … developments … multiplicity … relations … confusion … philosophy … truth.
Middles are where the art happens.
During the whole long middle of the Coleridge poem, I stared out the window, counting the cars on Nine Mile Road, the people going in and out of Mike’s Party Store, the hours until I would be going in there myself, on an errand from mom, buying dinner.
All overlaid, as with a gauze screen on which a movie is playing, the mariner’s surreal story.
“She’s off in her own little world,” they would say.
Writers follow the lead of their story. You try not to anticipate, you try to let it unfold. But the fact is, the story will not unfold without you. You have to be attentive to it, fully present; you must seek it out. And then wait.
When the lead is clear, when you understand what the story is saying, you take the initiative. You tell the story back to itself. A story loves nothing more than to hear itself told.
When you say yes to a story, you consent to submit to its lead. Otherwise, what are you doing? You are writing, but you are not telling a story. Perhaps you are thinking, perhaps you are directing. These underlie many a failed draft.
Storytelling is the most private of conversations. Tete-a-tete. You and the story are lost in each other, lost in the little world of your joint making.
This private conversation is what makes your story irresistible. Readers think they want to join the conversation, but that’s not exactly true. What readers crave, though they don’t name it, is to eavesdrop, to catch whispered snatches of the conversation between writer and story as it unfolds.
When a piece sags in the middle, it means the author has lost the connection with her story. Or that she is arguing with it.
I don’t dance well with a certain favorite lead any more. We don’t dance as often as we used to, and when we do, there’s a disconnect. I cannot read his story, and I am not telling him mine.
We are not lying, but we are not telling the truth. When he asks me to dance, the first thing I do is put myself away. Then I enter the embrace.
This feels dishonest. Not like stealing. Like betraying a confidence.
When a piece sags in the middle, it means the writer is being dishonest.
Not like lying.
Like betraying a confidence.
But whose?
Iyanla Vanzant is a popular psychologist. She writes books with titles like The Value in the Valley. Oprah likes her books very much. So does my friend Portia.
Self-help makes me twitch. Still, her name catches my eye in an old issue of Essence. I respect Portia enough to pay attention to Iyanla.
Tell the truth, she says. Tell the whole truth. Tell the whole truth about yourself, your dreams and lies. Tell the truth. Tell the radical truth. Tell it all.
Beginnings put the best face on things. Endings bring all to resolution. In the middle, all is revealed.
Middles are where the truth happens.
I once wrote a novel with a main character who was incapable of revealing anything about herself. She held herself very still. Her demeanor gave nothing away. She did not speak.
I tried to get her to talk. Authors do this kind of thing all the time.
Tell me your story, I urged her.
She stood, still and straight, her arms hanging at her sides, her palms facing me.
Who are you? I asked.
She wore a white dress, a loose shift. Her hair was in disarray. In the dense shade of a eucalyptus forest, I could not make out her face.
Tell me! Who are you? Tell me! I scolded.
She walked past in a tailored linen suit, wearing large sunglasses, her hair slicked back. A woman hiding in plain sight, like Jackie-O.
Hey! I shouted.
She turned, stood still and straight, her arms hanging at her sides, her palms facing me.
I could no more read her palms than her face.
She said only one thing: “I can’t say.”
I felt the words rise from her core. I felt her throat close around them. She was not lying; she was physically incapable of telling her story.
Now the blog is demanding: Who are you? What is your story?
I cannot read my own palms.
I can’t say.
The problem is with this blog.
When I was in the seventh grade, my teacher read aloud a poem called The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. A sailing ship is adrift. For most of the poem, no wind blows. The sailors strive to survive, fight, go mad, shrivel up from thirst and die. At the end, only one is left, the one who set the whole thing off by offending the gods. Years later, he is the ancient mariner, a nutjob telling his story to strangers, telling his truth in rhyme.
***
Beginnings are mystery and promise, endings resolution and promise. These are easy to conceive and to write. Middles tend to sag. Middles are complications … developments … multiplicity … relations … confusion … philosophy … truth.
Middles are where the art happens.
During the whole long middle of the Coleridge poem, I stared out the window, counting the cars on Nine Mile Road, the people going in and out of Mike’s Party Store, the hours until I would be going in there myself, on an errand from mom, buying dinner.
All overlaid, as with a gauze screen on which a movie is playing, the mariner’s surreal story.
“She’s off in her own little world,” they would say.
***
Writers follow the lead of their story. You try not to anticipate, you try to let it unfold. But the fact is, the story will not unfold without you. You have to be attentive to it, fully present; you must seek it out. And then wait.
When the lead is clear, when you understand what the story is saying, you take the initiative. You tell the story back to itself. A story loves nothing more than to hear itself told.
When you say yes to a story, you consent to submit to its lead. Otherwise, what are you doing? You are writing, but you are not telling a story. Perhaps you are thinking, perhaps you are directing. These underlie many a failed draft.
Storytelling is the most private of conversations. Tete-a-tete. You and the story are lost in each other, lost in the little world of your joint making.
This private conversation is what makes your story irresistible. Readers think they want to join the conversation, but that’s not exactly true. What readers crave, though they don’t name it, is to eavesdrop, to catch whispered snatches of the conversation between writer and story as it unfolds.
When a piece sags in the middle, it means the author has lost the connection with her story. Or that she is arguing with it.
***
I don’t dance well with a certain favorite lead any more. We don’t dance as often as we used to, and when we do, there’s a disconnect. I cannot read his story, and I am not telling him mine.
We are not lying, but we are not telling the truth. When he asks me to dance, the first thing I do is put myself away. Then I enter the embrace.
This feels dishonest. Not like stealing. Like betraying a confidence.
When a piece sags in the middle, it means the writer is being dishonest.
Not like lying.
Like betraying a confidence.
But whose?
***
Iyanla Vanzant is a popular psychologist. She writes books with titles like The Value in the Valley. Oprah likes her books very much. So does my friend Portia.
Self-help makes me twitch. Still, her name catches my eye in an old issue of Essence. I respect Portia enough to pay attention to Iyanla.
Tell the truth, she says. Tell the whole truth. Tell the whole truth about yourself, your dreams and lies. Tell the truth. Tell the radical truth. Tell it all.
Beginnings put the best face on things. Endings bring all to resolution. In the middle, all is revealed.
Middles are where the truth happens.
***
I once wrote a novel with a main character who was incapable of revealing anything about herself. She held herself very still. Her demeanor gave nothing away. She did not speak.
I tried to get her to talk. Authors do this kind of thing all the time.
Tell me your story, I urged her.
She stood, still and straight, her arms hanging at her sides, her palms facing me.
Who are you? I asked.
She wore a white dress, a loose shift. Her hair was in disarray. In the dense shade of a eucalyptus forest, I could not make out her face.
Tell me! Who are you? Tell me! I scolded.
She walked past in a tailored linen suit, wearing large sunglasses, her hair slicked back. A woman hiding in plain sight, like Jackie-O.
Hey! I shouted.
She turned, stood still and straight, her arms hanging at her sides, her palms facing me.
I could no more read her palms than her face.
She said only one thing: “I can’t say.”
I felt the words rise from her core. I felt her throat close around them. She was not lying; she was physically incapable of telling her story.
Now the blog is demanding: Who are you? What is your story?
I cannot read my own palms.
I can’t say.
Note to Self on Whom, in Terms of Visual Acuity, Bats Have Nothing
Lovely though it may be to dance cheek to cheek sans superstructure of metal and glass, best not to literally obey Nina's orders to lose the specs.
With sincere thanks to Stan and Steve.
With sincere thanks to Stan and Steve.
Once Upon a Time There Was an Editor Who Got What She Wished for ... and More
This new job is great!
It is absolutely beyond what I ever imagined doing. When I started in publishing, a books acquisitions editor was the peak of my ambition.
Now I oversee the book acquisitions editor. I am responsible for "content development."
Here's my job description in a nutshell: Dream up ideas and make them so.
Podcasts. Webinars. Magazines. Books. E-newsletters. Video. Games. A medical journal. Software tools. Statistical surveys. Market research. Live events.
My boss, the director of publishing, is the numbers cruncher. I am the idea fairy. We make a great team.
But ... as with every fairy tale, there's a monster on the horizon ...
The job came with one string attached:
Phase out two of the best people in the world. People who used to be my friends.
I had a 10-week plan to ease them out. Silly me.
"You're not fired! You're not fired!" I kept telling them. "Don't go! Be my friend!"
Dreaming up new ideas, dashing my friends' dreams. Crying tears of joy and misery can suck the life out of a person.
Thank god for tango.
It is absolutely beyond what I ever imagined doing. When I started in publishing, a books acquisitions editor was the peak of my ambition.
Now I oversee the book acquisitions editor. I am responsible for "content development."
Here's my job description in a nutshell: Dream up ideas and make them so.
Podcasts. Webinars. Magazines. Books. E-newsletters. Video. Games. A medical journal. Software tools. Statistical surveys. Market research. Live events.
My boss, the director of publishing, is the numbers cruncher. I am the idea fairy. We make a great team.
But ... as with every fairy tale, there's a monster on the horizon ...
The job came with one string attached:
Phase out two of the best people in the world. People who used to be my friends.
I had a 10-week plan to ease them out. Silly me.
"You're not fired! You're not fired!" I kept telling them. "Don't go! Be my friend!"
Dreaming up new ideas, dashing my friends' dreams. Crying tears of joy and misery can suck the life out of a person.
Thank god for tango.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
There Are No Hidden Meanings
That is the title of a book of photographs. Inside the book, there is a photo of a man on the toilet, in Rodin’s Thinker’s Pose.
This is why I’m not writing about Chas.
This is why I’m writing about the art on the cover of Westword instead.
If it doesn’t make sense to you, there is this: You don’t make sense to me, either, and you are all the more beautiful for it.
I love you with your certainty. You are foreign and sweet, delicacies behind the bakery window when I have no money at all.
I love my Siblings Two-of-Six and Three-of-Six, who are at home in their skins. I love Ms Merry Peri, who is astute about human complexities and yet can draw a straight line.
They know what’s what, what’s true. They know which things are true only for them, and what is true for the world at large.
I have too much Walt Whitman in me. I am kaleidoscopic and wholly permeable. When I set out to think my way out of a paper bag, I only become the paper.
This way of being amuses my siblings to a point, and then bemuses them, and then drives them to exasperation. Me, too.
We love what we can’t have. I love certainty. I love to follow a strong lead. But I can’t comprehend it.
I am strong and smart and powerful. I am not at the whim of my thoughts; one must be strong to steer a course as a kaleidoscopic, wholly permeable being.
Still, I covet the sweets in the bakery window. I yearn to stick my arm through the glass (gashing skin, drawing blood), to steal a bite of that pastry. I would let it melt on my tongue, swallow and feel it become me.
This can never happen. Certainty is foreign to my nature. My system rejects it violently, as it would poison.
What does this mean?
I am kaleidoscopically thinking about Chas. This is not confusion; it is abandoning straight lines.
What do I think?
I have clear thoughts, strong opinions. I write circles around them; they cannot bear the weight of a straight line.
I cannot speak more clearly. So,
I keep my own counsel.
I write about the art.
There are no hidden meanings.
This is why I’m not writing about Chas.
This is why I’m writing about the art on the cover of Westword instead.
If it doesn’t make sense to you, there is this: You don’t make sense to me, either, and you are all the more beautiful for it.
I love you with your certainty. You are foreign and sweet, delicacies behind the bakery window when I have no money at all.
I love my Siblings Two-of-Six and Three-of-Six, who are at home in their skins. I love Ms Merry Peri, who is astute about human complexities and yet can draw a straight line.
They know what’s what, what’s true. They know which things are true only for them, and what is true for the world at large.
I have too much Walt Whitman in me. I am kaleidoscopic and wholly permeable. When I set out to think my way out of a paper bag, I only become the paper.
This way of being amuses my siblings to a point, and then bemuses them, and then drives them to exasperation. Me, too.
We love what we can’t have. I love certainty. I love to follow a strong lead. But I can’t comprehend it.
I am strong and smart and powerful. I am not at the whim of my thoughts; one must be strong to steer a course as a kaleidoscopic, wholly permeable being.
Still, I covet the sweets in the bakery window. I yearn to stick my arm through the glass (gashing skin, drawing blood), to steal a bite of that pastry. I would let it melt on my tongue, swallow and feel it become me.
This can never happen. Certainty is foreign to my nature. My system rejects it violently, as it would poison.
What does this mean?
I am kaleidoscopically thinking about Chas. This is not confusion; it is abandoning straight lines.
What do I think?
I have clear thoughts, strong opinions. I write circles around them; they cannot bear the weight of a straight line.
I cannot speak more clearly. So,
I keep my own counsel.
I write about the art.
There are no hidden meanings.
Monday, August 6, 2007
The Devil in the Details
Tango makes the cover of Westword this week. The cover art looks like a frame from an animated film.
The lead is facing the reader. He is well-dressed in a tux, debonair, long and lean, very Art Deco. He has pretty, girly lips and heavy-lidded eyes. He looks haughty. One eyebrow is cocked.
Artists work in symbols, just as writers do. As every word is a choice, so is every stroke. This choice is deliberately vague: A cocked eyebrow denotes surprise … speculation … disdain … the chummy “get it?” of an insider’s joke.
Which one does the artist intend here? The artist intends for you to decide. Look for clues.
At first glance, the couple appears to be dancing milonguero style, two planks pressed flat against one another. But look again. She is bowed. If you take a pencil and draw a line that follows the curve of her axis past the lower frame of the picture, you can’t miss it:
She is pressing her hips strongly against him. Their knees have clearance, but you couldn’t get cellophane between her hips and his. This is clearly her choice; his hand is nowhere near the small of her back. Indeed, it is flung out in surprise.
Follow the line of her axis upward. Starting at the top of her ribs, she bows sharply away from her partner. Her head is turned to look over her shoulder. Both of her eyebrows are cocked.
No wonder. They have just finished a twirl, and her skirt has flown up. She is wearing no panties. Her thighs and bare bum are displayed for your viewing pleasure.
Her expression is unhappy, but not surprised. The nature of her unhappiness is unclear. Is it dismay? Disdain? Wretched sadness? You decide. She is the one who came to this formal dance without panties.
Next to her bare bum is the headline: “Pants off Dance off." Up above it says this: "The tango is an intimate dance, but this teacher took it too far.”
I’ll say she did!
No wonder the poor guy looks surprised. No wonder he has flung out his hand.
But wait: Give the lead’s hand a second long look. Count his fingers, and you will see that what at first glance looked like his thumb is actually a curved index finger. His thumb is hidden behind the skirt.
Is he delicately holding the skirt between thumb and forefinger? Lifting it? That would mean he and she are in collusion. She leaves off the panties; he lifts the skirt.
Look again: Cover half of the lead’s face, showing only the half with the cocked eyebrow. The artist has given him a cruel mouth.
And check out that hair: Combed straight back with a bit of widow’s peak. It’s an insider’s joke: Tango Colorado folk immediately recognize that hairline. You can bet the artist is proud of that touch.
We all have heard the reports. Yet she is the one pressing up against him. She is the one wearing no panties. The headline says Pants off Dance off, the name of a TV show starring amateur strippers.
The artist's intention is clear.
The lead is facing the reader. He is well-dressed in a tux, debonair, long and lean, very Art Deco. He has pretty, girly lips and heavy-lidded eyes. He looks haughty. One eyebrow is cocked.
Artists work in symbols, just as writers do. As every word is a choice, so is every stroke. This choice is deliberately vague: A cocked eyebrow denotes surprise … speculation … disdain … the chummy “get it?” of an insider’s joke.
Which one does the artist intend here? The artist intends for you to decide. Look for clues.
At first glance, the couple appears to be dancing milonguero style, two planks pressed flat against one another. But look again. She is bowed. If you take a pencil and draw a line that follows the curve of her axis past the lower frame of the picture, you can’t miss it:
She is pressing her hips strongly against him. Their knees have clearance, but you couldn’t get cellophane between her hips and his. This is clearly her choice; his hand is nowhere near the small of her back. Indeed, it is flung out in surprise.
Follow the line of her axis upward. Starting at the top of her ribs, she bows sharply away from her partner. Her head is turned to look over her shoulder. Both of her eyebrows are cocked.
No wonder. They have just finished a twirl, and her skirt has flown up. She is wearing no panties. Her thighs and bare bum are displayed for your viewing pleasure.
Her expression is unhappy, but not surprised. The nature of her unhappiness is unclear. Is it dismay? Disdain? Wretched sadness? You decide. She is the one who came to this formal dance without panties.
Next to her bare bum is the headline: “Pants off Dance off." Up above it says this: "The tango is an intimate dance, but this teacher took it too far.”
I’ll say she did!
No wonder the poor guy looks surprised. No wonder he has flung out his hand.
But wait: Give the lead’s hand a second long look. Count his fingers, and you will see that what at first glance looked like his thumb is actually a curved index finger. His thumb is hidden behind the skirt.
Is he delicately holding the skirt between thumb and forefinger? Lifting it? That would mean he and she are in collusion. She leaves off the panties; he lifts the skirt.
Look again: Cover half of the lead’s face, showing only the half with the cocked eyebrow. The artist has given him a cruel mouth.
And check out that hair: Combed straight back with a bit of widow’s peak. It’s an insider’s joke: Tango Colorado folk immediately recognize that hairline. You can bet the artist is proud of that touch.
We all have heard the reports. Yet she is the one pressing up against him. She is the one wearing no panties. The headline says Pants off Dance off, the name of a TV show starring amateur strippers.
The artist's intention is clear.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Whoo-hoo!
It is a pleasure to announce that One Heart Dancing has been promoted to Editor in Chief of our Publishing service area, effective immediately. One Heart has extensive, overlapping experience in both publishing and marketing... yadda yadda yadda...
Tango Is Life
Life at any time can become difficult: life at any time can become easy. It all depends upon how one adjusts oneself to life. - Morarji Desai
Friday, August 3, 2007
How To Give Yourself A Face Lift
(PRWEB) August 5, 2007 -- Cynthia Rowland, anti-aging face coach, announced today that her "Do It Yourself Facelift" tele-workshops, the first ever of its kind, will teach participants how to give themselves a face lift.
(From the blog of Chrys Tay [click for an extensive biography])
One Heart Dancing recommends this
Love Message 159
1 Million Love Messages is a very sweet blog, as you might expect. Full of photos and kissy emoticons and lousy poetry.
Who cares? These people are in love with each other!
This one is the very essence of love: Love Message 159.
Who cares? These people are in love with each other!
This one is the very essence of love: Love Message 159.
Feeling Linkish
When you write a blog, you have lots of leeway. You can write what you like, or not write at all.
I do not feel like writing today. I have read Westword. I put you in the hands of my friend Carleen, who posts wonderful stuff. Here, go to this link:
Nina Simone.
If that doesn't make you feel better, nothing will.
I am going there now.
I do not feel like writing today. I have read Westword. I put you in the hands of my friend Carleen, who posts wonderful stuff. Here, go to this link:
Nina Simone.
If that doesn't make you feel better, nothing will.
I am going there now.
The Real Shoe Diva
Someone at the office wants to know how to share info from lots of people informally without a database but with some crude sorting mechanism. Labeled blog posts, I suggest. I give a 30-second demo. Hence the previous post.
Here's a better one: Tango Shoe Divas! For the best of the blog, click on:
Traspie (the introduction to her collection)
Pimp My Shoes
Catastrophes
Repair
This woman is great fun. And she's intrepid. There's no shoe she won't buy so she can tell us whether it fits, holds up, falls apart, looks great.
She's great fun! And you'll learn lots about tango shoes.
And...
If you have ever bought tango shoes on Ebay, please click on Comments below and tell me how it went. It took 11 pair, a very patient sales woman, my entire lunch hour and then some to buy split-sole jazz shoes. I can't imagine buying online. Tell me how you manage it.
Here's a better one: Tango Shoe Divas! For the best of the blog, click on:
Traspie (the introduction to her collection)
Pimp My Shoes
Catastrophes
Repair
This woman is great fun. And she's intrepid. There's no shoe she won't buy so she can tell us whether it fits, holds up, falls apart, looks great.
She's great fun! And you'll learn lots about tango shoes.
And...
If you have ever bought tango shoes on Ebay, please click on Comments below and tell me how it went. It took 11 pair, a very patient sales woman, my entire lunch hour and then some to buy split-sole jazz shoes. I can't imagine buying online. Tell me how you manage it.
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