How do I love thee? Let me count the ways;
10. Two of you were so kind as to point out my missteps. One of you even gave me your business card, so I could hire you for lessons. Thanks so much!
9. The Jolly Dancer. Grace, gusto and a grin. A lead caught up in the moment--the most beautiful sight in all of tango. The reason for the dance and a joy to witness.
8. Hannah: Simple steps done well, with charm.
7. "You are an excellent beginner." Thank you. Really. I often hear "keep practicing and you'll be good one day." A gift to be affirmed in where I am today.
6. Ralph of the generous heart. How kind to alter your steps to mine and never make me feel it.
5. In the music's close embrace, leading.
4. Stillness and simplicty. And a little fancy footwork, too.
3. The eye game worked!
2. Michael, Portland-tango-man-once-removed, for sending Sonya to find me.
1. Bill Alsup. www.Tangobiker.com. Teacher and DJ. Suede on the soles of his sneakers. The spirit of the practica reflects his own.
PS: If you ever go to Portland, plan your trip around the Sunday afternoon practica at Viscount Studio. Class at 1, practica 2 to 5:30-ish.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Two Blogs Passing in the Night
Dear Michael:
As you say on your website, tango is life. Of course "two blogs dancing" couldn't be easy!
At 9:30 p.m., as you were at the milonga, I was across the street having a cup coffee. I would like to say I was fashionably late. In fact, the coffee was a mix of comfort food and bracer to carry me through the first few minutes of entering a room full of strangers. According to the host, I arrived moments after you left.
It was a lovely time. Seattle dancers' musicality and beauty of motion were captivating. Each couple's dancing was a one-of-a-kind expression of the same piece of music. The pacing, the dance-conversation between dancers, the beauty of each movement's line and placement. This is how tango would like to be danced.
Thanks, Seattle, for your beauty and your hospitality. And Michael, thanks for being generous and open enough to give this a try. I share your hope we'll meet at a festival one day.
Meanwhile, I will start practicing.. at this afternoon's practica in Portland.
As you say on your website, tango is life. Of course "two blogs dancing" couldn't be easy!
At 9:30 p.m., as you were at the milonga, I was across the street having a cup coffee. I would like to say I was fashionably late. In fact, the coffee was a mix of comfort food and bracer to carry me through the first few minutes of entering a room full of strangers. According to the host, I arrived moments after you left.
It was a lovely time. Seattle dancers' musicality and beauty of motion were captivating. Each couple's dancing was a one-of-a-kind expression of the same piece of music. The pacing, the dance-conversation between dancers, the beauty of each movement's line and placement. This is how tango would like to be danced.
Thanks, Seattle, for your beauty and your hospitality. And Michael, thanks for being generous and open enough to give this a try. I share your hope we'll meet at a festival one day.
Meanwhile, I will start practicing.. at this afternoon's practica in Portland.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Day 2, Tango 2, Seattle: Two Blogs Dancing
If you read enough greeting cards, you'll find one that says "Do something you fear every day."
I fear meeting strangers, whether they be people or grizzlies or fellow drivers on the freeway. In the past few days I have braved the land of grizzlies and Seattle traffic. I should feel invincible.
My stomach, as usual, tells me I don't. It is leaping and twitching, counting the minutes until we have to dance our way into yet another unknown.
I am heading into my second of four nights of tango, each one in a different city. Last night was Anchorage--folksy and funky and wine-soaked.
Tonight is Seattle. Seattle is not folksy or funky. Seattle is tango-cool.
This is the real thing: a Saturday night milonga. And there's no sneaking in and back out. I am supposed to meet a leader: a fellow dancer whose blog chronicles "the tango journey of a beginner who thinks too much."
Two weeks, when I first contacted him, this seemed like a lark: Two Blogs Dancing. What could be more fun than that?
Now that we're on the verge of the meeting, my stomach is making strong suggestions: "A nap would be more fun than that. A nice long nap. Put on your jammies. Have a nice cup of tea." (My stomach is partial to ginger and mint.)
No. I paint myself into these corners for a reason:
"I am an adventurer of the present," a mildly famous Frenchman said.*
I am an adventurer of the present. I carry my fears with me, but I still have adventures. My stomach protests; I haul it along, kicking and screaming. I honor its path, I just don't follow it.
So. This is how we will go forward: Clean the shoes. Take the shower. Fuss with the clothes. Do the hair. Play with the makeup. Pack the tiny dancing purse. Fiddle around until it's dangerously late, then put all the stoked-up adrenaline into the rush to get there. Ride the adrenaline across the threshold. Put on the tango attitude. Fake it. Get through the hard part. Relax.
Maybe, have a nice dance.
Later, have a nice cup of mint tea and a long sleep.
8 a.m. tomorrow: Drive to Portland and do it again.
*******************
"I am an adventurer of the present," Christian Coudurès quoted in "Mr. and Mrs. Natural," The New York Times, 1/21/07.
I fear meeting strangers, whether they be people or grizzlies or fellow drivers on the freeway. In the past few days I have braved the land of grizzlies and Seattle traffic. I should feel invincible.
My stomach, as usual, tells me I don't. It is leaping and twitching, counting the minutes until we have to dance our way into yet another unknown.
I am heading into my second of four nights of tango, each one in a different city. Last night was Anchorage--folksy and funky and wine-soaked.
Tonight is Seattle. Seattle is not folksy or funky. Seattle is tango-cool.
This is the real thing: a Saturday night milonga. And there's no sneaking in and back out. I am supposed to meet a leader: a fellow dancer whose blog chronicles "the tango journey of a beginner who thinks too much."
Two weeks, when I first contacted him, this seemed like a lark: Two Blogs Dancing. What could be more fun than that?
Now that we're on the verge of the meeting, my stomach is making strong suggestions: "A nap would be more fun than that. A nice long nap. Put on your jammies. Have a nice cup of tea." (My stomach is partial to ginger and mint.)
No. I paint myself into these corners for a reason:
"I am an adventurer of the present," a mildly famous Frenchman said.*
I am an adventurer of the present. I carry my fears with me, but I still have adventures. My stomach protests; I haul it along, kicking and screaming. I honor its path, I just don't follow it.
So. This is how we will go forward: Clean the shoes. Take the shower. Fuss with the clothes. Do the hair. Play with the makeup. Pack the tiny dancing purse. Fiddle around until it's dangerously late, then put all the stoked-up adrenaline into the rush to get there. Ride the adrenaline across the threshold. Put on the tango attitude. Fake it. Get through the hard part. Relax.
Maybe, have a nice dance.
Later, have a nice cup of mint tea and a long sleep.
8 a.m. tomorrow: Drive to Portland and do it again.
*******************
"I am an adventurer of the present," Christian Coudurès quoted in "Mr. and Mrs. Natural," The New York Times, 1/21/07.
Day 1, Tango 1: Alaska: Anchorage Practica
Thanks to Hiroko for inviting me to her practica and for all the Anchorage dance community in attendance for making me feel welcome. All seven of you!
More about the Anchorage tango scene later. Stay tuned...
More about the Anchorage tango scene later. Stay tuned...
Thursday, January 25, 2007
FYI: -35 is colder than -21
Ten days ago, I was poolside in Orlando, amid a sea of half-naked bodies basking at 81 degrees, higher than average for this time of year. A light haze took the edge off the heat. To put the edge back, I wore a wool sweater. When it comes to heat, I live over the edge.
In fact, I’ve gone so far over the edge I’ve come around the other side. (Like Alaska itself, which claims to be so far west it’s actually east. Some of the islands are west of the international dateline, which makes them east, so Alaskans say. I am not sure how time and space come together to make that happen.)
Now, here at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, about 60 miles northeast of Fairbanks, I am about to do the tippy-bare-toe dash down an icy sidewalk to the Rock Pool, the resort’s main attraction. It’s about 35 below zero. A wool sweater is irrelevant. To make the 100-step trek from my cabin to the bathhouse, I wore:
• 1 full set of Air-Force issue, Extreme Cold Weather long johns
• 1 turtleneck shirt
• 1 sweatshirt
• 1 pair of jeans
• 1 pair of boots with a Thinsulate lining guaranteed good to -20
• 2 pair of Extreme Cold Weather socks
• 3 versions of hat
• 2 versions of scarf
• 1 pair of double-thick wool mittens
For the 45 steps to the pool, I wear:
• 1 swimsuit, still damp from yesterday’s dip
0 robe, 0 towel, 0 flip-flops, 0 scarf to breathe through to prevent the water vapor in my lungs from freezing. There is no place to leave these accessories; everything between bathhouse and pool is twice its natural size with hoarfrost and snow.
It’s seriously cold, seriously cold. My head feels like a band is constricting it. In two days I’ve learned to measure the cold: at -21 I feel nothing. At -30, my skull begins to cave in.
With the steam rising and a light breeze wafting it this way and that (and dropping the temperature a few more degrees), hoarfrost grows on every strand of my hair. Every curl holds its shape, but every curl is suddenly a hair thicker and growing thicker by the second. With peripheral vision I watch it grow ... 1/32, 1/16, 1/8, 1/4 inch thicker. I look like a head from the movie Titanic.
My earlobes, a few inches above the 106-degree water, feel frostbit. I cover them with my wet hands. Then my hands feel frostbit.
My glasses are a solid mask of ice. Yesterday at -21, I could simply turn my head to the sky and the frost would melt away. Today it only grows thicker. I can’t see a thing, but I can hear. I hear creaking and a splash at the deep end of the pool. I hear the movement of water. I hear the voices of friends who have been here: “Grizzlies! Moose! Grizzlies! Lynx! Grizzlies! Grizzlies! Grizzlies!”
I give a little splash to warn whatever is out there it is not alone. I know from experience you don’t want to surprise a moose. Or a mountain lion. I have never surprised a bear, and I hope to never.
My splash sounds like a fish. Grizzlies like fish. I stop splashing. I’d rather take my chances on surprise than on announcing myself as breakfast.
No one else is here. No one else is coming.
I am blind. A frosty Medusa. My earlobes ache. I am making too much of inconsequential noises. Immersed in hot water, the cold and the dark are getting to me. I stay for as long as my nerves and my ears can stand it.
I flee to bathhouse. Someone has scattered salt to melt the ice that has formed on the heated walkway. My feet stick to the ice, and then to the salt. My hand sticks to the door’s metal handle. I’ve had enough adventure today.
It is 8 a.m.
In fact, I’ve gone so far over the edge I’ve come around the other side. (Like Alaska itself, which claims to be so far west it’s actually east. Some of the islands are west of the international dateline, which makes them east, so Alaskans say. I am not sure how time and space come together to make that happen.)
Now, here at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, about 60 miles northeast of Fairbanks, I am about to do the tippy-bare-toe dash down an icy sidewalk to the Rock Pool, the resort’s main attraction. It’s about 35 below zero. A wool sweater is irrelevant. To make the 100-step trek from my cabin to the bathhouse, I wore:
• 1 full set of Air-Force issue, Extreme Cold Weather long johns
• 1 turtleneck shirt
• 1 sweatshirt
• 1 pair of jeans
• 1 pair of boots with a Thinsulate lining guaranteed good to -20
• 2 pair of Extreme Cold Weather socks
• 3 versions of hat
• 2 versions of scarf
• 1 pair of double-thick wool mittens
For the 45 steps to the pool, I wear:
• 1 swimsuit, still damp from yesterday’s dip
0 robe, 0 towel, 0 flip-flops, 0 scarf to breathe through to prevent the water vapor in my lungs from freezing. There is no place to leave these accessories; everything between bathhouse and pool is twice its natural size with hoarfrost and snow.
It’s seriously cold, seriously cold. My head feels like a band is constricting it. In two days I’ve learned to measure the cold: at -21 I feel nothing. At -30, my skull begins to cave in.
With the steam rising and a light breeze wafting it this way and that (and dropping the temperature a few more degrees), hoarfrost grows on every strand of my hair. Every curl holds its shape, but every curl is suddenly a hair thicker and growing thicker by the second. With peripheral vision I watch it grow ... 1/32, 1/16, 1/8, 1/4 inch thicker. I look like a head from the movie Titanic.
My earlobes, a few inches above the 106-degree water, feel frostbit. I cover them with my wet hands. Then my hands feel frostbit.
My glasses are a solid mask of ice. Yesterday at -21, I could simply turn my head to the sky and the frost would melt away. Today it only grows thicker. I can’t see a thing, but I can hear. I hear creaking and a splash at the deep end of the pool. I hear the movement of water. I hear the voices of friends who have been here: “Grizzlies! Moose! Grizzlies! Lynx! Grizzlies! Grizzlies! Grizzlies!”
I give a little splash to warn whatever is out there it is not alone. I know from experience you don’t want to surprise a moose. Or a mountain lion. I have never surprised a bear, and I hope to never.
My splash sounds like a fish. Grizzlies like fish. I stop splashing. I’d rather take my chances on surprise than on announcing myself as breakfast.
No one else is here. No one else is coming.
I am blind. A frosty Medusa. My earlobes ache. I am making too much of inconsequential noises. Immersed in hot water, the cold and the dark are getting to me. I stay for as long as my nerves and my ears can stand it.
I flee to bathhouse. Someone has scattered salt to melt the ice that has formed on the heated walkway. My feet stick to the ice, and then to the salt. My hand sticks to the door’s metal handle. I’ve had enough adventure today.
It is 8 a.m.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
-30
It's easy to tell when it's getting cold in Chena. The locals put on their coats. Yesterday at -21, hats were nowhere to be seen, and coats and gloves were optional. What about all those warnings--your ears will fall off, your breath will freeze your lungs, and all that? Oh, they say, that's only when it gets cold.
Rusty Foreacre, who runs the Chena greenhouse, doesn't bother with a coat until it hits 40 below. It's too much hassle to undress when he reaches the greenhouse, where indoor tempreatures range from 68 upwards. He wears his bunny boots because he can kick them off and wander the greenhouse in his stocking feet. The floor, equipped with radiant heat, is about 84 degrees and provides most of the heat for the greenhouse.
What Rusty does wear--24/7--is a headlamp. Small, with halogen bulbs. It seems an odd choice for someone who works in the too brightly lit greenhouse.
He explains: Twice he has been on a ladder, adjusting something at the 20-foot ceiling, when the power suddenly went out. Perhaps he was working in some dark corner? But how many dark corners are there in a greenhouse?
At 5 p.m. in December, every one.
Rusty Foreacre, who runs the Chena greenhouse, doesn't bother with a coat until it hits 40 below. It's too much hassle to undress when he reaches the greenhouse, where indoor tempreatures range from 68 upwards. He wears his bunny boots because he can kick them off and wander the greenhouse in his stocking feet. The floor, equipped with radiant heat, is about 84 degrees and provides most of the heat for the greenhouse.
What Rusty does wear--24/7--is a headlamp. Small, with halogen bulbs. It seems an odd choice for someone who works in the too brightly lit greenhouse.
He explains: Twice he has been on a ladder, adjusting something at the 20-foot ceiling, when the power suddenly went out. Perhaps he was working in some dark corner? But how many dark corners are there in a greenhouse?
At 5 p.m. in December, every one.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Had I But Checked...
Had I but checked, I might have learned that scientists predict the aurora. Tracking the solar wind, don't you know.
So, today I discover that the aurora are scheduled to appear in Alaska for most of the month of January, except for one small window of darkness...
...for the rest of this week.
Instead, I will have the adventure of extreme cold. Tomorrow the high in Fairbanks is predicted to be -5 to -15.
And to think that 10 days ago I was in Orlando, 81 degrees--sitting by the pool with my wool sweater on. 81 degrees is just a touch cool to me. Tomorrow, I will be 95 degrees cooler. Yikes!
Meanwhile have made contact with Michael "tango is life", a Seattle dancer whose website chronicles "the tango journey of a beginner who thinks too much." John Lee tells me that no one knows the history of tango in Seattle, but he puts me in touch with several people who can give me bits and pieces of it. And Bill, a DJ in Portland, promises a lively practica on Sunday--it's lately been drawing around 90 people, he says. Monday, when I return to Denver, it will be a whole new world at the Blue Ice, with Grisha getting his start as a group teacher for the intermediate class. Adventures all around!
But first ... the Chena Hot Springs Resort, an hour outside of Fairbanks, complete with its own greenhouse, which once set the record for greatest differential indoor/outdoor temperature. Sounds like a good place to hang out.
So, today I discover that the aurora are scheduled to appear in Alaska for most of the month of January, except for one small window of darkness...
...for the rest of this week.
Instead, I will have the adventure of extreme cold. Tomorrow the high in Fairbanks is predicted to be -5 to -15.
And to think that 10 days ago I was in Orlando, 81 degrees--sitting by the pool with my wool sweater on. 81 degrees is just a touch cool to me. Tomorrow, I will be 95 degrees cooler. Yikes!
Meanwhile have made contact with Michael "tango is life", a Seattle dancer whose website chronicles "the tango journey of a beginner who thinks too much." John Lee tells me that no one knows the history of tango in Seattle, but he puts me in touch with several people who can give me bits and pieces of it. And Bill, a DJ in Portland, promises a lively practica on Sunday--it's lately been drawing around 90 people, he says. Monday, when I return to Denver, it will be a whole new world at the Blue Ice, with Grisha getting his start as a group teacher for the intermediate class. Adventures all around!
But first ... the Chena Hot Springs Resort, an hour outside of Fairbanks, complete with its own greenhouse, which once set the record for greatest differential indoor/outdoor temperature. Sounds like a good place to hang out.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Four States! Four Tangos! Four Days!
Pccked. Tuesday I leave for Fairbanks, Alaska, to see the Northern Lights. Then...
Friday night: Tango in Anchorage
Saturday night: Tango in Seattle
Sunday night: Tango in Portland
Monday night: Tango back home in Denver
Four states, four tangos, four days!
Extreme cold-weather gear goes in a huge suitcase. That I can check. If it gets lost, I will survive. My tango gear I take in a carry-on.
Friday night: Tango in Anchorage
Saturday night: Tango in Seattle
Sunday night: Tango in Portland
Monday night: Tango back home in Denver
Four states, four tangos, four days!
Extreme cold-weather gear goes in a huge suitcase. That I can check. If it gets lost, I will survive. My tango gear I take in a carry-on.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
DJ Dave Makes a Convert
DJ Dave says you should never buy tango music from Virgin Records. I tell him I bought a sampler from Twist and Shou...
"Get your money back," he says. He doesn't even ask what I got.
Fat lot he knows. Two to Tango was hard to get used to, but after two months it is growing on me. I am not at home in any of the songs yet, but if I concentrate hard I can work my way into them. What can I expect? This is not my native musical milieu.
So when it comes time to practice, I hesitate. The new CDs will take some getting used to. It's hard enough to feel the music I know. Do I want to start over with somebody new?
Di Sarli. I've heard of him, of course. I'm sure I've heard his stuff in class, but I wouldn't recognize him. DJ Dave sent him home with me. Nina and Grisha and Chaz get giddy when they talk about him. OK, in you go.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
The best wine you have ever tasted, $1200 a bottle, sipped from the glass of a woman in love. The head of a newborn cupped in your palm. The quality of moonlight as it falls on the hands of a waiter serving truffles with eggs at midnight in the courtyard of Le Cygne, Vincennes. The mouth-feel of the names as you same them aloud: Podestá y Di Sarli.
Instruments lust to be played so. My feet move to my shoes.
Tomorrow I will see about getting my money back.
"Get your money back," he says. He doesn't even ask what I got.
Fat lot he knows. Two to Tango was hard to get used to, but after two months it is growing on me. I am not at home in any of the songs yet, but if I concentrate hard I can work my way into them. What can I expect? This is not my native musical milieu.
So when it comes time to practice, I hesitate. The new CDs will take some getting used to. It's hard enough to feel the music I know. Do I want to start over with somebody new?
Di Sarli. I've heard of him, of course. I'm sure I've heard his stuff in class, but I wouldn't recognize him. DJ Dave sent him home with me. Nina and Grisha and Chaz get giddy when they talk about him. OK, in you go.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
The best wine you have ever tasted, $1200 a bottle, sipped from the glass of a woman in love. The head of a newborn cupped in your palm. The quality of moonlight as it falls on the hands of a waiter serving truffles with eggs at midnight in the courtyard of Le Cygne, Vincennes. The mouth-feel of the names as you same them aloud: Podestá y Di Sarli.
Instruments lust to be played so. My feet move to my shoes.
Tomorrow I will see about getting my money back.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Don't Make Me Hungry!
Javier is at a bit of a loss. He’s in town for a week from Buenos Aires, our teacher but also our guest. So how does he chew us out?
His English is good, but it has odd gaps. He starts the class by saying good night.
“Good evening,” corrects Sharna, his teaching partner and sometime interpreter.
He repeats after her: “Good evening.”
“Good night!” Sharna demonstrates, waving to us and walking away.
Javier catches on. “Good night! Thank you for coming,” he calls over his shoulder.
He turns back with a sheepish grin. Stands up straight. “Good evening,” he begins again.
And so it goes. Javier speaks. We puzzle out his meaning. Sharna fills in the gaps. I am in over my head. As I struggle with steps and partners, the language burps break up the tension, give me a smile. At times even Sharna is at a loss; it took a conference of three to say the word hinge.
Javier has the normal range of teacher talk down cold, but when he wants to depart from it, he needs a little help. He wants to depart from it now.
“I asked you to show me how you move to the music,” he says. Instead, we have shown him our footwork. Forget the steps! he says. Move to the music.
“You must listen,” he admonishes us. He means listen to the music and listen to him. Sure he’s a guest, but first he’s our teacher. We need to show respect.
We nod, eager to get back to it. We haven’t taken his meaning, not really, and he knows it.
“Listen,” he says in that too-patient tone that screams of frustration. He grins, but there is steel in it. It’s time to get serious. He is just a touch angry and he wants it to show.
Javier prepares to issue a warning. He raises a finger. Stands up very straight. Pauses to choose his words. Fails to consult Sharna. Pitches his voice between and a shout and a growl. Then lets us have it:
“Don’t make me hungry!”
His English is good, but it has odd gaps. He starts the class by saying good night.
“Good evening,” corrects Sharna, his teaching partner and sometime interpreter.
He repeats after her: “Good evening.”
“Good night!” Sharna demonstrates, waving to us and walking away.
Javier catches on. “Good night! Thank you for coming,” he calls over his shoulder.
He turns back with a sheepish grin. Stands up straight. “Good evening,” he begins again.
And so it goes. Javier speaks. We puzzle out his meaning. Sharna fills in the gaps. I am in over my head. As I struggle with steps and partners, the language burps break up the tension, give me a smile. At times even Sharna is at a loss; it took a conference of three to say the word hinge.
Javier has the normal range of teacher talk down cold, but when he wants to depart from it, he needs a little help. He wants to depart from it now.
“I asked you to show me how you move to the music,” he says. Instead, we have shown him our footwork. Forget the steps! he says. Move to the music.
“You must listen,” he admonishes us. He means listen to the music and listen to him. Sure he’s a guest, but first he’s our teacher. We need to show respect.
We nod, eager to get back to it. We haven’t taken his meaning, not really, and he knows it.
“Listen,” he says in that too-patient tone that screams of frustration. He grins, but there is steel in it. It’s time to get serious. He is just a touch angry and he wants it to show.
Javier prepares to issue a warning. He raises a finger. Stands up very straight. Pauses to choose his words. Fails to consult Sharna. Pitches his voice between and a shout and a growl. Then lets us have it:
“Don’t make me hungry!”
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
I Am in Big Trouble
I am in big trouble. In two hours I am due in an intermediate class, taught by visiting teachers from Buenos Aires.
What was I thinking?
I was thinking it was a beginner class when I called to register. Too late, after signing on for two classes tonight, I realized they were intermediate.
Last time I took an intermediate class no one would dance with me once they saw how awful I was.
Janice says that beginnning classes in Buenos Aires start where our intermediate classes leave off.
Chaz says that tango is all in the attitude.
I feel sick.
What was I thinking?
I was thinking it was a beginner class when I called to register. Too late, after signing on for two classes tonight, I realized they were intermediate.
Last time I took an intermediate class no one would dance with me once they saw how awful I was.
Janice says that beginnning classes in Buenos Aires start where our intermediate classes leave off.
Chaz says that tango is all in the attitude.
I feel sick.
Nina Finds a Gem
Dancers! Nina sings out. The room goes still. Everyone turns to her with a touch of trepidation. This new step has been coming slowly, and Nina is exacting….
Of all the things I love about Nina, this is the One: You are a dancer. She is a teacher. Tango is an art. By the strength of her passion, by her devotion to technique, she redefines every place she teaches as a studio space. In her class gather we not only to learn but to respect the dance, the tango tradition.
The way this looks in practice is rigorous, demanding. Nina is a teacher in the style of a Russian ballet master. You will leave better than you came, but you may not always enjoy getting there. She can be demanding and critical, and she’s been known to use mockery and sarcasm as teaching tools. I have been the brunt of it all, and I find it’s all good. In the hands of anyone else it would sting without purpose. Nina makes the sting worthwhile.
What does that mean? There’s mockery meant to hurt. And there’s instructional mockery, which shows in an exaggerated way what you are doing wrong. Nina once accused an entire class of cross-country skiing. I felt embarrassed and cheated: I was doing exactly what she had asked!
She demonstrated what she saw in a silly, gross fashion, complete with schussing sound effects. Dancers exchanged looks. Her parody made clear what was wrong and how it was wrong. When the music resumed, we had something to work against, something to do and something to guard against doing.
For a few moments we anti-schussed in silence. And then Nina blessed us: “Good. Dancers!” Relief. Smiles. Pride. Just shy of giddy. When Nina says “Good!” we know we did well by the standards of the dance, not standards for beginners.
… So the air of trepidation as we await her judgment is natural and useful. Couples break to face her, to get the verdict, and there it is: Nina clasping her hands before her heart, rocking them in her excitement.
“I see beautiful things!” she exclaims. She is transported, as anyone is who sees beauty blossom under their hand.
We are befuddled. Which of us did those beautiful things? Each couple had a few good moments, but we are struggling and we know it and we know she knows it. We’re better than we were, but we’re a long way from proficient. We don’t expect to get it right in the space of one class. We’re here to learn; later we’ll practice, and much later we’ll be passable.
So where is the beauty?
Nina explains: “When you dance, beauty comes in small increments. It is a very small change.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger.
“When you do it well, it is a gem. This is what I want for you.” She looks well into each of our skeptical faces. There is love in that look, not for us but for the little gems we created.
We drop our eyes. This doesn’t happen in tango, this barefaced joy, this glimpse into what matters deeply. Nina is the instructor, we are the students, this is the studio. This moment is a gem in itself, but it upsets the balance. Someone must set it right.
Somebody does.
“How will we know when we get it?” He is only half-joking. We half-laugh, half-anxious for the answer.
Nina answers crisply: “I will tell you!”
Of all the things I love about Nina, this is the One: You are a dancer. She is a teacher. Tango is an art. By the strength of her passion, by her devotion to technique, she redefines every place she teaches as a studio space. In her class gather we not only to learn but to respect the dance, the tango tradition.
The way this looks in practice is rigorous, demanding. Nina is a teacher in the style of a Russian ballet master. You will leave better than you came, but you may not always enjoy getting there. She can be demanding and critical, and she’s been known to use mockery and sarcasm as teaching tools. I have been the brunt of it all, and I find it’s all good. In the hands of anyone else it would sting without purpose. Nina makes the sting worthwhile.
What does that mean? There’s mockery meant to hurt. And there’s instructional mockery, which shows in an exaggerated way what you are doing wrong. Nina once accused an entire class of cross-country skiing. I felt embarrassed and cheated: I was doing exactly what she had asked!
She demonstrated what she saw in a silly, gross fashion, complete with schussing sound effects. Dancers exchanged looks. Her parody made clear what was wrong and how it was wrong. When the music resumed, we had something to work against, something to do and something to guard against doing.
For a few moments we anti-schussed in silence. And then Nina blessed us: “Good. Dancers!” Relief. Smiles. Pride. Just shy of giddy. When Nina says “Good!” we know we did well by the standards of the dance, not standards for beginners.
… So the air of trepidation as we await her judgment is natural and useful. Couples break to face her, to get the verdict, and there it is: Nina clasping her hands before her heart, rocking them in her excitement.
“I see beautiful things!” she exclaims. She is transported, as anyone is who sees beauty blossom under their hand.
We are befuddled. Which of us did those beautiful things? Each couple had a few good moments, but we are struggling and we know it and we know she knows it. We’re better than we were, but we’re a long way from proficient. We don’t expect to get it right in the space of one class. We’re here to learn; later we’ll practice, and much later we’ll be passable.
So where is the beauty?
Nina explains: “When you dance, beauty comes in small increments. It is a very small change.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger.
“When you do it well, it is a gem. This is what I want for you.” She looks well into each of our skeptical faces. There is love in that look, not for us but for the little gems we created.
We drop our eyes. This doesn’t happen in tango, this barefaced joy, this glimpse into what matters deeply. Nina is the instructor, we are the students, this is the studio. This moment is a gem in itself, but it upsets the balance. Someone must set it right.
Somebody does.
“How will we know when we get it?” He is only half-joking. We half-laugh, half-anxious for the answer.
Nina answers crisply: “I will tell you!”
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Man on the Wall and Q
The Man on the Wall has features in common with the practice buddy I call Glenlivet (he's smooth as scotch). A roundness of cheek, a beautiful smile. Perfect posture, a certain self-contained air. He hangs out on the west end of my apartment.
On the east end of the apartment, a bookshelf prevents me from drawing his brother. Instead, on the second shelf from the top, there is the novel Q .* Q looks a bit like The Man on the Wall, a bit more like Glenlivet: all head, no hair. Glenlivet has a touch of beard in the center of his chin, which The Man on the Wall lacks. But Q has it covered.
The Man on the Wall stands about six feet tall. There’s a good reason for this. I tend to sag in the shoulders and chin; to maintain eye contact with him, I must stay lifted. Q is a bit shorter, and there’s good reason for this, too: I don’t want to go to the trouble of emptying the shelves and adjusting their height. Q is dressed for the tango: flashy yet tasteful in red, black and gold. He stands on the shelf just left of midway, between Eudora Welty and a novel about a nun.** Eudora leans heavily against him, the nun leans away.
Sometimes as I practice walking, I pretend The Man on the Wall is Glenlivet. He is wowed, he thinks I’m amazing. I can see it in his smile. He cannot believe I have learned to walk! Just then I fall into the sofa.
The Man on the Wall never misses a beat. He is still wowed, he still thinks I’m amazing. I believe my persistence impresses him. The Man on the Wall cannot believe I am getting up yet again. He smiles at me. I smile back. One day, I promise him, we will be dancing.
*Q (intellectual history in a rollicking wartime novel by Luther Blissett, rating: ****)
**The novel about a nun: Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen, "the novel's achingly gorgeous prose is the true miracle here" (Mary Park)
On the east end of the apartment, a bookshelf prevents me from drawing his brother. Instead, on the second shelf from the top, there is the novel Q .* Q looks a bit like The Man on the Wall, a bit more like Glenlivet: all head, no hair. Glenlivet has a touch of beard in the center of his chin, which The Man on the Wall lacks. But Q has it covered.
The Man on the Wall stands about six feet tall. There’s a good reason for this. I tend to sag in the shoulders and chin; to maintain eye contact with him, I must stay lifted. Q is a bit shorter, and there’s good reason for this, too: I don’t want to go to the trouble of emptying the shelves and adjusting their height. Q is dressed for the tango: flashy yet tasteful in red, black and gold. He stands on the shelf just left of midway, between Eudora Welty and a novel about a nun.** Eudora leans heavily against him, the nun leans away.
Sometimes as I practice walking, I pretend The Man on the Wall is Glenlivet. He is wowed, he thinks I’m amazing. I can see it in his smile. He cannot believe I have learned to walk! Just then I fall into the sofa.
The Man on the Wall never misses a beat. He is still wowed, he still thinks I’m amazing. I believe my persistence impresses him. The Man on the Wall cannot believe I am getting up yet again. He smiles at me. I smile back. One day, I promise him, we will be dancing.
*Q (intellectual history in a rollicking wartime novel by Luther Blissett, rating: ****)
**The novel about a nun: Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen, "the novel's achingly gorgeous prose is the true miracle here" (Mary Park)
Friday, January 12, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 2 and 3: Connecting Feet to Floor
Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 2: Connecting Feet to Shoes to Floor
In my new shoes I stand.
And that’s all I can do. I cannot move. I cannot lift one foot; it won’t let go of the floor. They—my feet—are waging a battle, pressing into the floor for all they are worth. Each foot knows its job, to keep the rest of the body aloft. Each is determined to succeed this time. It would help if they were working in concert. The left foot doesn’t seem to know what the right one is doing. Both see the floor as their enemy. And the shoes! My feet react like puppies the first time in a leash. As I waver and list and collapse into the chair, it occurs to me that tango begins here: connecting feet to shoes to floor.
Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 3: Introducing Feet to Shoes
Puppies must be broken to the leash. Sit them down in the living room, clip it to their collar, and they’ll fight it, roll and chase and bite and kick and shake the life out of it.
If you want your puppy to love the leash, take it for lots of walks. First, make the promise: Put on your coat, open the door. Using your happy voice, say to your puppy, “Want to go for a walk?” The puppy has no idea what your words mean, but the coat and the door and the voice say it all: Whatever it is, he wants it. He barely notices the string you attach. It’s a small price to pay for escape from the daily routine; a small price to pay for the chance, the unlikely but ever-present chance, of slipping the collar for three or four minutes of glorious, untrammeled freedom!
Soon you won’t need the door or the coat or the voice. Soon your puppy will bring the leash to you.
In my new shoes I stand.
And that’s all I can do. I cannot move. I cannot lift one foot; it won’t let go of the floor. They—my feet—are waging a battle, pressing into the floor for all they are worth. Each foot knows its job, to keep the rest of the body aloft. Each is determined to succeed this time. It would help if they were working in concert. The left foot doesn’t seem to know what the right one is doing. Both see the floor as their enemy. And the shoes! My feet react like puppies the first time in a leash. As I waver and list and collapse into the chair, it occurs to me that tango begins here: connecting feet to shoes to floor.
Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 3: Introducing Feet to Shoes
Puppies must be broken to the leash. Sit them down in the living room, clip it to their collar, and they’ll fight it, roll and chase and bite and kick and shake the life out of it.
If you want your puppy to love the leash, take it for lots of walks. First, make the promise: Put on your coat, open the door. Using your happy voice, say to your puppy, “Want to go for a walk?” The puppy has no idea what your words mean, but the coat and the door and the voice say it all: Whatever it is, he wants it. He barely notices the string you attach. It’s a small price to pay for escape from the daily routine; a small price to pay for the chance, the unlikely but ever-present chance, of slipping the collar for three or four minutes of glorious, untrammeled freedom!
Soon you won’t need the door or the coat or the voice. Soon your puppy will bring the leash to you.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 1: I Stand
I have no sense of my body: the sizes and shapes of my limbs, their length, their relative weight. My center of gravity, like magnetic north, migrates at an astonishing rate. My limbs have no apparent relationship to my torso, and I myself am lost in relation to external objects, the world.
All of this goes to balance. When I walk the narrow halls at work, I run the fingers of my right hand along the wall. This controls the careening. At every doorway I lose my bearings just a bit. Momentum carries me past the gap, and then the wall resumes. Conventional wisdom says not much is expected of middle management; barring disability, however, you are expected to be able to walk. Subtly I orient myself to walls; on stairs I grip the banister. I always wear flats.
So tango shoes, with their 3.5-inch heels, promise quite an adventure. I strap myself in as a parachutist might do. Check, double-check, jiggle and shift, adjust this and that, check again for good measure. Everything right and tight? Best to be sure before taking the leap. I place my hands on the arms of my chair, brace myself and push off.
I stand.
All of this goes to balance. When I walk the narrow halls at work, I run the fingers of my right hand along the wall. This controls the careening. At every doorway I lose my bearings just a bit. Momentum carries me past the gap, and then the wall resumes. Conventional wisdom says not much is expected of middle management; barring disability, however, you are expected to be able to walk. Subtly I orient myself to walls; on stairs I grip the banister. I always wear flats.
So tango shoes, with their 3.5-inch heels, promise quite an adventure. I strap myself in as a parachutist might do. Check, double-check, jiggle and shift, adjust this and that, check again for good measure. Everything right and tight? Best to be sure before taking the leap. I place my hands on the arms of my chair, brace myself and push off.
I stand.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Man on the Wall Teaches Me Tango
The Man on the Wall teaches me tango. When I practice backward ochos, hands sliding lightly along his shoulders, he teaches me to make a full pivot. I tend to stop short of 180 degrees without even knowing. It took The Man on the Wall to show me. With every incomplete pivot I move a few inches away from him. After three or four ochos I am at arm’s length and must stop what I’m doing to step back into line.
The rhythm of the ocho is hypnotic. Once I am into it I don’t want to stop.
TeacherTom says ladies are like Energizer Bunnies, once we start ochos you can’t get us to stop. He says this to make the men understand that they had better be ready to put on the brakes. It should be enough to simply stop leading the step, but when ladies are off in their own ocho world, extraordinary measures apply.
When I screw up the ochos, The Man on the Wall leaves it to me to fix it. A dance partner wouldn’t do that. As the distance between us opened, a dance partner would step forward to move with me, or he would tug on my arms to bring me back to him. The Man on the Wall does not compensate, he does not correct. He allows me to experience the consequences of my actions, then waits while I figure things out.
I love him for this.
The rhythm of the ocho is hypnotic. Once I am into it I don’t want to stop.
TeacherTom says ladies are like Energizer Bunnies, once we start ochos you can’t get us to stop. He says this to make the men understand that they had better be ready to put on the brakes. It should be enough to simply stop leading the step, but when ladies are off in their own ocho world, extraordinary measures apply.
When I screw up the ochos, The Man on the Wall leaves it to me to fix it. A dance partner wouldn’t do that. As the distance between us opened, a dance partner would step forward to move with me, or he would tug on my arms to bring me back to him. The Man on the Wall does not compensate, he does not correct. He allows me to experience the consequences of my actions, then waits while I figure things out.
I love him for this.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Monday, January 1, 2007
The Better Way to Bring in the New Year
They say to be careful about what you’re doing as the year turns over because, whatever it is, you’ll be doing it often throughout the year.
I hope so. I was snuggled into a deep, soft sofa, champagne and shrimp near at hand, my stomach aching from laughter at my new favorite comedian, Eddie Izzard. At the other end of the couch, Melinda roared. The woman has admirable gusto, which gusts more strongly as the evening goes on.
Louie, leaning heavily against me, complained in a snorting way; his partner glared. Yoda refuses to beg; she wills you to give her that last bit of cookie. Melinda calls her the Old Lady; she calls Louie the Lover. She tosses them each a bit of something. They make disgusting pug noises as they snort it down.
What about All Night New Year's Eve milonga and the midnight kiss that I had fretted over for two days?
Hard to kiss at midnight when the milonga doesn’t start until 1:30 a.m. (Should have checked into that sooner.) No problem. New Year’s Eve comes around every year, and it always ends at midnight. Patience is a virtue.
At 12:03 Melinda and I notice the time, toast to girlfriends. By 1:37, Melinda is snoring. I send her off to bed, find my way to the guest room. As the All Night New Year’s Eve extravaganza begins, I drift off to the snoring and snorting of these three friends.
What is the better way to bring in the New Year—with friends or a kiss? There’s more to life than tango.
I hope so. I was snuggled into a deep, soft sofa, champagne and shrimp near at hand, my stomach aching from laughter at my new favorite comedian, Eddie Izzard. At the other end of the couch, Melinda roared. The woman has admirable gusto, which gusts more strongly as the evening goes on.
Louie, leaning heavily against me, complained in a snorting way; his partner glared. Yoda refuses to beg; she wills you to give her that last bit of cookie. Melinda calls her the Old Lady; she calls Louie the Lover. She tosses them each a bit of something. They make disgusting pug noises as they snort it down.
What about All Night New Year's Eve milonga and the midnight kiss that I had fretted over for two days?
Hard to kiss at midnight when the milonga doesn’t start until 1:30 a.m. (Should have checked into that sooner.) No problem. New Year’s Eve comes around every year, and it always ends at midnight. Patience is a virtue.
At 12:03 Melinda and I notice the time, toast to girlfriends. By 1:37, Melinda is snoring. I send her off to bed, find my way to the guest room. As the All Night New Year’s Eve extravaganza begins, I drift off to the snoring and snorting of these three friends.
What is the better way to bring in the New Year—with friends or a kiss? There’s more to life than tango.
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