A while ago, there was a benefit for a rape crisis center in my town--an art exhibition, with tango.
The gallery occupies two floors. Downstairs, I am sitting alone, reading the accounts of rape
survivors, while upstairs, they are dancing, a violin wailing.
At first I
think the music is too loud; the dancing overhead while
these women's stories wait silently below, too macabre. A bit "Masque
of the Red Death." Then I begin to think that there may be something
else going on.
I start to think of the dancing not as careless of the
women's stories but as celebratory of their survival. Perhaps we dance
because they are living, despite what was done to them.
The violin sings
defiance to the night.
Mario Calarota - March 16, 1936 — Last night I decided to start calling the milongueros again on their birthdays as I had done for so many years. Today I called Mario. F...
4 days ago