Highlights of My Tango Year: The Man on the Wall

A few weeks after I started tango, I took out a pencil and drew my practice partner, The Man on the Wall.

He was a smiley face. A very nice one. But I couldn’t say that in the blog. The first lesson you learn as a writer is “show, don’t tell.” In other words, paint a picture. So I wrote this:

The Man on the Wall has features in common with my practice buddy Glenlivet. A roundness of cheek, a beautiful smile. Perfect posture, a certain self-contained air.

The Man on the Wall was not a person in his own right. Glenlivet was the real deal. The Man on the Wall was Glenlivet’s moon, reflecting his light.

Glenlivet and I were litter-mates. At first, we danced lots and lots. As we got better, and as we adopted different styles and teachers, we danced less and less. I missed him.

In his absence, though, I began to see The Man on the Wall in his own right. He was dumb as drywall, sure enough, but very, very sweet. Loyal. He always looked happy to see me. I liked having him around.

My writer’s game was this: I could not anthropomorphize him. So, he never felt happy to see me, but always looked happy. If I ever said he was patient or sweet or amazed or benign, I wrote it in such a way as to make it clear that was only my perception of his unchanging countenance. For example:

The Man on the Wall waits. If patience is a virtue, he must be a saint. A happy one. Though he’s bald. And emaciated. And frankly, his grin seems more clueless than cute right this minute….

The Man on the Wall sustained me in tango. With him I could concentrate on technique, without the distraction of a stranger intruding in my space. He never rushed me. He never disappeared. He never bruised my ego. And he cheered me up when all manner of things were going badly. As it turns out, a smile is contagious, even if it is just drawn on the wall.

Maybe this happens to all beginning followers: I went through a streak when the leads wanted to coach me. Whether it was some clueless guy dragging me off-axis and then scolding me for lack of balance or a classmate gently offering advice, it seemed that every single person had something to say about all the ways I was getting it wrong. Then I began to dance with Stan and Tom and—happy day!—they told me what I did well.

In contrast:

Glenlivet says nothing, which is A-OK, because he never criticized, either. He is the closest thing going to The Man on the Wall.

a-HA! Who’s the real deal now, and who is the moon?

Of every discovery and delight this year of tango has brought me, this tops the list. This shell game of person and literary construct, the give-and-take between life as I live it and write it, the sleight-of-hand--which I myself never saw coming until I read the words after they appeared on the page--is the highlight of My Tango Year.