Lightly, with laughter. They work hard. They have fun.
PS: They don’t talk when the teacher is talking.Friday, May 25, 2007
How the Professionals Learn
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Nina gives me permission to watch the Julio and Corina’s professional class. Corina has also given her blessing.
For a week I have been looking forward to this.
Now, half a day to go, I am assailed with doubt.
What if the students, the professionals in the class, don’t want anyone watching? It would be OK if they asked me to leave. It would not be OK if they didn’t ask, but resented my presence.
What if they think this is precious? I’m too old to be a groupie. I’m too shy to pull it off with élan. In ballet school, students are often invited to watch master classes. But as I am so often reminded, tango and ballet don’t mix.
Yes, I am assailed. But I am going. Wild horses couldn’t hold me back. I long ago learned to harness the wild horses of shyness. They stamp and bolt, but in the end I am stronger than they are.
I want to see how professionals learn. How they listen, how they practice. I can take classes any time to learn new steps; tonight I intend to learn how to learn.
***
I do not wish the professionals to think I have the nerve to participate in their class. As if they would care. They all have their own partners. Still. I don’t wish to attract looks of askance.
The solution: dress not to dance. This is a handy trick. If you go to milongas unsuitably dressed, you can sit and watch undisturbed. Jeans, a sweater, clunky shoes—that’s the ticket.
At the last minute I change into a nice top. There is a milonga after the class. I am too dispirited from my private lesson this morning to even consider attending. But I know the effect tango can have on the spirits. Best to take the shoes, too.
I plan to arrive a half hour late. Class will be in session. I can slip in unnoticed.
Ha! This is tango-time. Class has not yet begun. I find a place out of the way but with a good view.
Julio calls the class together.
Psst! Nina says from her place in the circle of students. Get in here and dance!
“No partner,” I mouth.
She points to Gino, who is taking registration.
I have danced with Gino before. A joy and a pleasure. In respect of his skill, I offer him a chance to back out. He refuses. “Get your shoes,” he says. “I will torture you!”
My mood turns on a dime. In a flash, I am shod.
Torture shmorture! This is Adventure!
And here’s a gift: Here in this class, Corina is repeating corrections she gave me this morning! Tips on posture, on how to step around your partner.
All night long, Gino teases and beguiles and helps me get better. As he works on the step, I concentrate on being the best damn follower on the planet.
I hear Corina’s voice from this morning. I follow Gino’s lead and Corina’s voice at the same time. I feel like Dorothy being prepped to meet the Wizard of Oz, a dozen stylists working all at once. Wow!
When Gino has the step, he helps me work on technique. He tells me things I have heard 100 times before, but in the context of the moment, in his repeated demonstrations, it clicks.
Something bigger clicks, too. When I left my private lesson with Corina this morning, I had only one question to ask her. I didn’t ask because I was afraid of the answer.
The question was this: Are there some people who just never get it? Are somehow intrinsically wanting, inept in the tango?
Editors trim sentences. Trim the last phrase from the last question, and the truth of what matters emerges.
The Inuit, they say, have 100 words for the various qualities of snow. English has only one word for love. Now it has one more: I tango-love Gino. I tango-love Nina.
In the space of one minute (Get in here and dance! Get your shoes.), two kind-hearted people gave me back the dance. And maybe a little bit more. Something has clicked. I feel it, but I am not sure what it is. I don’t care to pursue it right now.
Tonight, I am dancing again.
Wings, I Have Wings!
Stop the presses! OHD has finally, finally, finally found her wings!
Who can say how these things unfold?
Since last fall, nearly every teacher—Nina and Grisha and Roberta and Chas and Gaia and Tom and Nina and Nina and Nina—has been hammering away at this aspect of the embrace.
Raise your wings, Nina says.
Tuck in your ribs, Chas says.
Put your hands on me here, Nina says, then raises her wings.
You’re falling away from me, Roberta says, being the lead.
Like this, Gaia says, being the girl so I can feel it on her.
Here, here, Nina says, palming the muscles.
Give me your back, Grisha says, showing me the curve of his arm.
Give me your back, Roberta says, showing me the curve of her arm.
Engage, Nina says, because she knows I have that term from ballet.
Tom catches my eye as I dance by, rolls his shoulders.
Let me feel it! Nina commands.
I’ve lost the connection, Roberta says again and again.
Send your arms away from your body, Nina says.
Like this, Grisha says again and again.
Where are your wings? Nina demands.
I admire their single-minded dedication. I match it. I tuck, I lift, I roll, I hunch, I grip. I do push ups, as best I can. I make myself sore. I take long, hot baths.
I learn slowly. I don’t mind this. I don’t like to feel rushed. I like the process, the piling on of meaning, the slowly sinking in, the carefully observed, consciously created, incremental advance.
At work, at the photocopier, I tuck, lift, hunch, grip. In the ladies, as I wash my hands, I turn sideways to see the effect. There is not much to see. At my desk I hunch over a keyboard. I take a break, stretch, lift my wings.
In class with Nina, in privates with Grisha, at practica and milonga, I lift my wings at the start of each dance. But when the dance ends, I discover my wings have folded up. I do not capture the moment when that happens. I don’t know how to adjust on the fly.
Five days ago, I lift my wings in a confident way for the first time. This is the result of the slow pile-up. One day, it coalesces. And then coalesces quickly.
In our Friday lesson, Grisha stops to correct me mid-dance. I am concentrating on legwork; I don’t notice my wings. He shows me the curve of his arm. Pay attention here first, he is saying.
I turn my attention to wings. Lift and lock them in place, hold the feel of that configuration of muscle foremost in my mind. Grisha moves my legs while I strive to keep my muscles in exactly that place.
If you freeze a pose for too long, you need a hot bath to thaw out. Mine lasts one hour. I miss a dinner date, am late to the Merc.
Saturday I practice with The Man on the Wall, my palms flat on his shoulders, my elbows stuck out to the sides, in a pose that engages the back.
But … it engages me wrong. When I place my arms so, it pinches my shoulder blades sharply together—the opposite effect from the one that I want! How have I not noticed before? I turn away from The Man on the Wall, continue my practice in the imaginary embrace of a three-dimensional lead.
Sunday morning, too lazy to get out of bed, I wriggle to stretch out a kink. Eeeeek! This is it! So easily something slips into place. I have been lifting my wings from their tops. Too high, too close to the surface.
As with anything heavy, you must lift from below. Find the strong base, inexorably press against the weight bearing down. It is the subtle power move. It is pushups when your arms are already tired.
Monday night, I ask Grisha for a dance. This is a first. I don’t ask for dances. But he has been urging me to. “This is a practica. I am here working, Come and find me and ask me to dance.”
Never.
But I do Monday night. There is a slow vals, slow enough I can focus, melodic enough I can move without thinking.
Time to try out my new wings. Will he notice?
We stand at the edge of the dance floor. I let my hips and legs go soft, tuck myself into Corina’s cave. Grisha encircles my back, raises his hand. No hurry. My arm encircles his shoulders, my hand cradles in his. I take a light breath … lightly lift. My wings slip into place. I hold them there as best I can, holding tight. Occasionally I feel them drooping. In the space between steps, I slip them back into place.
He says nothing about my new wings.
Tuesday I’m stuck at the Turn, waiting for Julio and Corina to dance. I am cranky and cold and starving. I have already eaten six of the free mints by the door. If Julio and Corina would hurry up and dance, I could hit a pancake house on the way home.
Finally they take to the floor. They do not give a performance. They do not enter the social dance area. They enter the area cordoned off for practice. The area is nearly deserted, and they start … well, horsing around. Beautifully and gracefully and splendidly and all that. But still, horsing around.
This is the best tango I have ever seen! They fall all over each other’s feet. They laugh and talk and keep going. Her steps are perfectly placed—you can’t imagine the precision--and easygoing. He misses a step, goes off balance. They laugh and go, laugh and go. It’s not only their dance that shines brightly; it is them.
Falling over is bad in milonga. In performance, very bad. But if you don't fall over in practice, you are playing too safe. I love that they don't feel the need to play it safe even though half the room is watching.
And Corina has a beautiful back. I don’t see wings, I see muscles. They slip and slide as her embrace moves with the dance.
Lovely! So now I have seen them and I can go. But I am waylaid. Andre has been trying the cabaceo all night, he says.
Yeah, I don’t play that, I tell him. I’d rather sit out.
If you want to practice…, he says.
I explain I am working on the wing thing. I demonstrate for him. He understands this; we have taken many classes together.
We take our first steps. Julio and Corina return to the floor, fall in behind us. I catch sight of her back. Curved and easy.
We are not halfway around the first turn of the floor when Andre draws back. “You’ve lost it!” he says. He is laughing, which makes me laugh too. Did I not say just 10 steps ago that this is the very thing I would practice?
Tell me every time I lose it, I say.
And he does.
And I notice:
I lose it every time I step out of the straightforward embrace for the cross, ocho, ocho cortado, ocho-anything, or the turn.
We round a corner. “I don’t feel you,” Andre says, jollying my back with his arm.
Julio and Corina are not watching us dance. But I pretend that they are. I hold my back just as she did, curved and easy, strong. I envision Grisha’s curved arm, Roberta’s curved arm, Andre’s arm curved around me. I give him my back.
The wings slip into place. They are not heavy, they have just the right heft.
I feel my hand strong in Andre’s, and it is not because I am pushing, it is because I am there.
We do all kinds of things that we have never done before. “I am practicing,” he says with good humor.
Every time my brain goes into my legs, I lose my wings and we stumble. Andre laughs. I laugh too. He teases me. I tease him back. We agree that it’s always his fault.
But we are seriously practicing, too. “Disconnection,” Andre whispers. I adjust. Yes! Andre says. Yes! I nod.
We go at it again, working with serious intent, our hearts light, connected.
My wings wriggle in pleasure. Then we fly.
Who can say how these things unfold?
Since last fall, nearly every teacher—Nina and Grisha and Roberta and Chas and Gaia and Tom and Nina and Nina and Nina—has been hammering away at this aspect of the embrace.
Raise your wings, Nina says.
Tuck in your ribs, Chas says.
Put your hands on me here, Nina says, then raises her wings.
You’re falling away from me, Roberta says, being the lead.
Like this, Gaia says, being the girl so I can feel it on her.
Here, here, Nina says, palming the muscles.
Give me your back, Grisha says, showing me the curve of his arm.
Give me your back, Roberta says, showing me the curve of her arm.
Engage, Nina says, because she knows I have that term from ballet.
Tom catches my eye as I dance by, rolls his shoulders.
Let me feel it! Nina commands.
I’ve lost the connection, Roberta says again and again.
Send your arms away from your body, Nina says.
Like this, Grisha says again and again.
Where are your wings? Nina demands.
I admire their single-minded dedication. I match it. I tuck, I lift, I roll, I hunch, I grip. I do push ups, as best I can. I make myself sore. I take long, hot baths.
I learn slowly. I don’t mind this. I don’t like to feel rushed. I like the process, the piling on of meaning, the slowly sinking in, the carefully observed, consciously created, incremental advance.
At work, at the photocopier, I tuck, lift, hunch, grip. In the ladies, as I wash my hands, I turn sideways to see the effect. There is not much to see. At my desk I hunch over a keyboard. I take a break, stretch, lift my wings.
In class with Nina, in privates with Grisha, at practica and milonga, I lift my wings at the start of each dance. But when the dance ends, I discover my wings have folded up. I do not capture the moment when that happens. I don’t know how to adjust on the fly.
Five days ago, I lift my wings in a confident way for the first time. This is the result of the slow pile-up. One day, it coalesces. And then coalesces quickly.
In our Friday lesson, Grisha stops to correct me mid-dance. I am concentrating on legwork; I don’t notice my wings. He shows me the curve of his arm. Pay attention here first, he is saying.
I turn my attention to wings. Lift and lock them in place, hold the feel of that configuration of muscle foremost in my mind. Grisha moves my legs while I strive to keep my muscles in exactly that place.
If you freeze a pose for too long, you need a hot bath to thaw out. Mine lasts one hour. I miss a dinner date, am late to the Merc.
Saturday I practice with The Man on the Wall, my palms flat on his shoulders, my elbows stuck out to the sides, in a pose that engages the back.
But … it engages me wrong. When I place my arms so, it pinches my shoulder blades sharply together—the opposite effect from the one that I want! How have I not noticed before? I turn away from The Man on the Wall, continue my practice in the imaginary embrace of a three-dimensional lead.
Sunday morning, too lazy to get out of bed, I wriggle to stretch out a kink. Eeeeek! This is it! So easily something slips into place. I have been lifting my wings from their tops. Too high, too close to the surface.
As with anything heavy, you must lift from below. Find the strong base, inexorably press against the weight bearing down. It is the subtle power move. It is pushups when your arms are already tired.
Monday night, I ask Grisha for a dance. This is a first. I don’t ask for dances. But he has been urging me to. “This is a practica. I am here working, Come and find me and ask me to dance.”
Never.
But I do Monday night. There is a slow vals, slow enough I can focus, melodic enough I can move without thinking.
Time to try out my new wings. Will he notice?
We stand at the edge of the dance floor. I let my hips and legs go soft, tuck myself into Corina’s cave. Grisha encircles my back, raises his hand. No hurry. My arm encircles his shoulders, my hand cradles in his. I take a light breath … lightly lift. My wings slip into place. I hold them there as best I can, holding tight. Occasionally I feel them drooping. In the space between steps, I slip them back into place.
He says nothing about my new wings.
Tuesday I’m stuck at the Turn, waiting for Julio and Corina to dance. I am cranky and cold and starving. I have already eaten six of the free mints by the door. If Julio and Corina would hurry up and dance, I could hit a pancake house on the way home.
Finally they take to the floor. They do not give a performance. They do not enter the social dance area. They enter the area cordoned off for practice. The area is nearly deserted, and they start … well, horsing around. Beautifully and gracefully and splendidly and all that. But still, horsing around.
This is the best tango I have ever seen! They fall all over each other’s feet. They laugh and talk and keep going. Her steps are perfectly placed—you can’t imagine the precision--and easygoing. He misses a step, goes off balance. They laugh and go, laugh and go. It’s not only their dance that shines brightly; it is them.
Falling over is bad in milonga. In performance, very bad. But if you don't fall over in practice, you are playing too safe. I love that they don't feel the need to play it safe even though half the room is watching.
And Corina has a beautiful back. I don’t see wings, I see muscles. They slip and slide as her embrace moves with the dance.
Lovely! So now I have seen them and I can go. But I am waylaid. Andre has been trying the cabaceo all night, he says.
Yeah, I don’t play that, I tell him. I’d rather sit out.
If you want to practice…, he says.
I explain I am working on the wing thing. I demonstrate for him. He understands this; we have taken many classes together.
We take our first steps. Julio and Corina return to the floor, fall in behind us. I catch sight of her back. Curved and easy.
We are not halfway around the first turn of the floor when Andre draws back. “You’ve lost it!” he says. He is laughing, which makes me laugh too. Did I not say just 10 steps ago that this is the very thing I would practice?
Tell me every time I lose it, I say.
And he does.
And I notice:
I lose it every time I step out of the straightforward embrace for the cross, ocho, ocho cortado, ocho-anything, or the turn.
We round a corner. “I don’t feel you,” Andre says, jollying my back with his arm.
Julio and Corina are not watching us dance. But I pretend that they are. I hold my back just as she did, curved and easy, strong. I envision Grisha’s curved arm, Roberta’s curved arm, Andre’s arm curved around me. I give him my back.
The wings slip into place. They are not heavy, they have just the right heft.
I feel my hand strong in Andre’s, and it is not because I am pushing, it is because I am there.
We do all kinds of things that we have never done before. “I am practicing,” he says with good humor.
Every time my brain goes into my legs, I lose my wings and we stumble. Andre laughs. I laugh too. He teases me. I tease him back. We agree that it’s always his fault.
But we are seriously practicing, too. “Disconnection,” Andre whispers. I adjust. Yes! Andre says. Yes! I nod.
We go at it again, working with serious intent, our hearts light, connected.
My wings wriggle in pleasure. Then we fly.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Shoes Shoes Shoes
To: One Heart Dancing
From: The Tango House
RE: New Shoes at the Tango House
Greetings from The Tango House,
A new shipment of Comme il Faut shoes arrived today. It includes many pairs of hard to find small and large sizes. The shoe boutique will be open starting on Wednesday, May 23rd for Julio and Corina workshops. It will be open during regular events at The Tango House and by appointment.
* * * * *
To: Gaia
From: One Heart Dancing
RE: MORE shoes?
Stop tempting me! I am trying to save up to buy a house!
(I just bought a pair in April, the best The Tango House had in my size at the time. I like them and will be happy with them … unless these new shoes are truly fabulous.)
* * * * *
To: One Heart Dancing
From: Gaia
Re: More Shoes
… the shoes are just to die for. Oh my gosh they are beautiful. I'm having a hard time keeping my little fingers off of them myself. Yummy to say the least. But house saving is important and you'll feel great when your goal is accomplished, so I won't tell you any more how fabulous, utterly irresistible, sensously incredible the new shoes are. No, I won't tell you that at all! :-) Hugs, Gaia
* * * * *
To: Gaia
From: One Heart Dancing
Re: Temptation
I can resist anything except temptation.
Love,
One Heart Dancing
From: The Tango House
RE: New Shoes at the Tango House
Greetings from The Tango House,
A new shipment of Comme il Faut shoes arrived today. It includes many pairs of hard to find small and large sizes. The shoe boutique will be open starting on Wednesday, May 23rd for Julio and Corina workshops. It will be open during regular events at The Tango House and by appointment.
* * * * *
To: Gaia
From: One Heart Dancing
RE: MORE shoes?
Stop tempting me! I am trying to save up to buy a house!
(I just bought a pair in April, the best The Tango House had in my size at the time. I like them and will be happy with them … unless these new shoes are truly fabulous.)
* * * * *
To: One Heart Dancing
From: Gaia
Re: More Shoes
… the shoes are just to die for. Oh my gosh they are beautiful. I'm having a hard time keeping my little fingers off of them myself. Yummy to say the least. But house saving is important and you'll feel great when your goal is accomplished, so I won't tell you any more how fabulous, utterly irresistible, sensously incredible the new shoes are. No, I won't tell you that at all! :-) Hugs, Gaia
* * * * *
To: Gaia
From: One Heart Dancing
Re: Temptation
I can resist anything except temptation.
Love,
One Heart Dancing
Monday, May 21, 2007
Lemony Snicket's Words of Wisdom
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particulary if the thing is cats.
From Horseradish, Lemony Snicket's book of bitter truths
From Horseradish, Lemony Snicket's book of bitter truths
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Man on the Wall and I Are Not Speaking
Saturday afternoon. Canaro is playing. I am packing. The Man on the Wall is looking on. We are not speaking. I am avoiding him, as much as I can in this small space.
He has to know what’s going on. Q has already gone into a box, nestled between Eudora and the nun who leans away in distaste. Too bad for her; for now she is pressed against Q in an embrace so close even TeacherTom would approve.
Now The Man on the Wall has no Q to lock eyes with. Now when the Man on the Wall looks down the length of the room, he sees only empty bookshelves.
He has to wonder about his own fate. I am not thinking about it. Until today that has been easy.
Things at work have been the kind of crazed that actually makes you crazy. I am house hunting. Pulpo was here. Tango is playing its usual mind games. I am practicing like a fiend. I had another private lesson with Grisha, another group class with Tom. Dueling techniques. Luiza says followers have to master them all. The festival is coming. My prettiest milonga dress, which was two sizes large at Christmas, is four sizes large right now. My mother wants to know if I’m anorexic. She grills me on how much I weigh, what I eat. I ask her if she knows a good tailor. The festival is coming. My car has developed a catastrophic oil leak. I have nowhere to live as of June 1. I cannot find a house that I like with a payment that will allow me unlimited tango. The festival is coming. And I still am 20 down on the waiting list!
The Man on the Wall has not been distracted at all.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Stumped
I am standing before The Man on the Wall. He is smiling benignly. We have been at it nearly two hours. Sometimes we dance without stopping; sometimes we take a break and go at it again.
We are taking a break now. I am stumped.
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.
I have not danced in three days. Tomorrow I have a private lesson. I need to get back in the game. I want to make good progress, not spend half the class working out kinks.
Tonight I have practiced walking, Eleven Perfect Steps. Front and back ochos with my hands on the shoulders of The Man on the Wall. Turns around the stick this way and that. Turns without the stick, this way and that. Ocho cortados. My balance is good enough now that I can practice exits from the cross by myself--I mean, with The Man on the Wall.
What next? The Man on the Wall has no suggestions. He’s still a rank beginner; there are not many steps he can do. And he can’t lead worth a damn.
No, I take that back. He is fine, really. No different than usual. I am only cranky because of my lesson tomorrow.
The Man on the Wall has been my practice buddy all along. Loyal and cheerful. Always willing. Always approving.
When the men at the Turn and the Merc make me feel like I cannot do one single thing right, I can always come home and dance with The Man on the Wall.
When I actually could not do one single thing right—not even stand up in these shoes—The Man on the Wall cheered me on. When I couldn’t walk a single step without falling into the sofa, his smile reminded me, “Isn’t this silly? Won’t it be great when we get it right?”
When I staggered and swore, he was steadfast. Tears of frustration never discomfited him.
When I fell in love with ochos, he was an Ironman. Tom says that women doing ochos are like Energizer bunnies; if you get them started, it’s hard to get them to stop. With The Man on the Wall, I could do ochos ’til I dropped.
When Nina and Grisha were teaching together, and they wanted to build musical awareness, they asked their students to dance free-form alone to the music. I froze in the class but found my groove with The Man on the Wall.
When I danced to Alfred Apaka, even as Tango Colorado went up in flames over alternative music, The Man on the Wall kept his mouth shut.
When I ran through dance personas like water (butterfly, badass, lesbian, queen), The Man on the Wall remained true.
When I finally brought myself to give up my ballet shoes—admit I am giving up on ballet—he looked on while I took a last, elegiac photo.
When I wore the Oriental silk bustier that Andrea made me buy, which will never see the light of the Merc or the Turn, The Man on the Wall pretended only casual interest.
When New Zealand quit tango, The Man on the Wall hung around.
I wouldn’t be in tango today if it weren’t for The Man on the Wall.
I am doing OK. After six months, I am still here. I haven’t mastered Eleven Perfect Steps, but I can do Eleven Pretty Good ones. Leads appreciate my pretty good balance. Usually, I can pivot and hang around on one foot.
A handful of men ask me to dance. One says I’ve made lots of progress. Another says he likes that we are becoming accustomed to dancing together. Glenlivet says nothing, which is A-OK, because he never criticized, either. He is the closest thing going to The Man on the Wall.
Still. Here I stand, stumped. The Man on the Wall has all good intentions, but he can’t help me now. It’s 8 p.m. There’s a practica in Boulder, but I don’t want to drive that far. I have been packing. I have had wine. I am tired.
One more time through the Di Sarli CD. Eleven Perfect Steps. Ochos. Turns this way and that. Whatever else I can manage on my own.
We are taking a break now. I am stumped.
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.
I have not danced in three days. Tomorrow I have a private lesson. I need to get back in the game. I want to make good progress, not spend half the class working out kinks.
Tonight I have practiced walking, Eleven Perfect Steps. Front and back ochos with my hands on the shoulders of The Man on the Wall. Turns around the stick this way and that. Turns without the stick, this way and that. Ocho cortados. My balance is good enough now that I can practice exits from the cross by myself--I mean, with The Man on the Wall.
What next? The Man on the Wall has no suggestions. He’s still a rank beginner; there are not many steps he can do. And he can’t lead worth a damn.
No, I take that back. He is fine, really. No different than usual. I am only cranky because of my lesson tomorrow.
The Man on the Wall has been my practice buddy all along. Loyal and cheerful. Always willing. Always approving.
When the men at the Turn and the Merc make me feel like I cannot do one single thing right, I can always come home and dance with The Man on the Wall.
When I actually could not do one single thing right—not even stand up in these shoes—The Man on the Wall cheered me on. When I couldn’t walk a single step without falling into the sofa, his smile reminded me, “Isn’t this silly? Won’t it be great when we get it right?”
When I staggered and swore, he was steadfast. Tears of frustration never discomfited him.
When I fell in love with ochos, he was an Ironman. Tom says that women doing ochos are like Energizer bunnies; if you get them started, it’s hard to get them to stop. With The Man on the Wall, I could do ochos ’til I dropped.
When Nina and Grisha were teaching together, and they wanted to build musical awareness, they asked their students to dance free-form alone to the music. I froze in the class but found my groove with The Man on the Wall.
When I danced to Alfred Apaka, even as Tango Colorado went up in flames over alternative music, The Man on the Wall kept his mouth shut.
When I ran through dance personas like water (butterfly, badass, lesbian, queen), The Man on the Wall remained true.
When I finally brought myself to give up my ballet shoes—admit I am giving up on ballet—he looked on while I took a last, elegiac photo.
When I wore the Oriental silk bustier that Andrea made me buy, which will never see the light of the Merc or the Turn, The Man on the Wall pretended only casual interest.
When New Zealand quit tango, The Man on the Wall hung around.
I wouldn’t be in tango today if it weren’t for The Man on the Wall.
I am doing OK. After six months, I am still here. I haven’t mastered Eleven Perfect Steps, but I can do Eleven Pretty Good ones. Leads appreciate my pretty good balance. Usually, I can pivot and hang around on one foot.
A handful of men ask me to dance. One says I’ve made lots of progress. Another says he likes that we are becoming accustomed to dancing together. Glenlivet says nothing, which is A-OK, because he never criticized, either. He is the closest thing going to The Man on the Wall.
Still. Here I stand, stumped. The Man on the Wall has all good intentions, but he can’t help me now. It’s 8 p.m. There’s a practica in Boulder, but I don’t want to drive that far. I have been packing. I have had wine. I am tired.
One more time through the Di Sarli CD. Eleven Perfect Steps. Ochos. Turns this way and that. Whatever else I can manage on my own.
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