Getting It

With my red dress and red lips, my hair pulled back on the sides, and my black t-strap shoes, I felt a little bit retro, in the best possible way--channeling a glamor queen of the 1940s. I'd had a great day and was feeling good when I walked--maybe sashayed, a little bit--into the milonga.

My first dance lived up to my hopes. The moment I sat down one favorite partner asked for the next tanda--a wonderful way to start. It had been several weeks since I'd danced--weather and work had disrupted my usual schedule--but we danced well together, as we have been doing more and more in the last year or so.

My next dance was a vals with a nice newer leader I know from classes. It was not our best dance together, but I enjoyed the embrace and focused more on enjoying the music than on the problems we were having, so I was happy.

Then I was asked by another favorite partner: a quiet guy with a wonderful, tender embrace and a strong, sensitive, and musical lead. Dancing with him feels like a form of meditation; it's that relaxing. We glided together across the floor, almost floating. The navigation was hazardous, but nothing seemed to disturb us. Following his smooth, calm lead, my steps felt graceful and elegant. I felt a serene smile growing on my lips. The pressures I've been feeling on and off the dance floor faded away until there was only us and the music. It seemed as if, together, in those moments, there was nothing we couldn't do.

We laughed with sheer delight at the end of the tanda, and hugged our thanks. I sat down with my glass of water, and was happily surprised when he came back after the first song of the next tanda. I took the hand he offered me, and we did it all again.

I danced twice more before leaving at around midnight; it had been a busy day, and I couldn't stop yawning. Six dances in a couple of hours is a very good record for me at that milonga. The later dances were less than wonderful, but I was still so happy from my two earlier tandas that they couldn't bring down my mood.

It's been a while since I've had a night that good, in so many respects. And it always surprises me--although I suppose it shouldn't, by now--how good tango like that can refresh my spirit. I can't always make it happen--but I think I'm starting to see how to more effectively invite it.

Maybe this seeking tango-bliss is, itself, a bit like a good dance. I lead myself by inviting my own happiness, not by bearing down and trying to force it. (May all the saints of tango preserve followers from such a lead!) I may think there is some flaw on a partner's side or in the behavior of people I do not dance with--but in the end, I can only be (and must be) responsible for doing my best on my end. The circumstances may not be ideal--maybe all my favorite partners are not there, maybe we're not connecting well on a given night, maybe I'm in a difficult place inside myself--but you try to dance your best with the partners who are there. You start with the best attitude you can bring, and it seems as though, almost always, good things flow from there.

And, of course, like almost everything about tango, it's not only about tango, is it?

On Tango Black

From the time I was a tiny tot, on up through high school, even college, my grandmother always used to take me shopping for new Christmas and Easter outfits. It was very generous of her. She is an amazingly lovely and classy woman, who always knows how to make herself and her home beautiful and welcoming for family gatherings. Taking me shopping was a way for her to help me look and feel extra-special for our family occasions, and spend some extra time together.

I don't know whether it's that early learning from my grandmother, the idea that one should have something new and special for celebrations, even if they aren't Major Life Events, or simply that by the end of a year, one may be a little bored of one's clothes--they require a bit of spicing up, and worn-out things need to be replaced--but I've kept up, for the most part, this little tradition of getting myself something new and nice to wear for Christmas and for Easter.* I spent some time this weekend shopping for my Christmas outfit for this year, starting with a new winter dress.

One of the principles of clothes-shopping that I've developed since starting tango is that I'd prefer for dresses and evening outfits to be functional for dancing too.

(Its corollary has become, "No clothes that I can only justify as being good for tango"--but I get a little loose on that. After all, if something is good for tango, it would probably be knock-his-socks-off on a nice evening date. Voila, built-in second use! And I do go out often enough to make this a desirable goal, though not often evening dates that require much formality, just now. So I must get better about making sure my purchases fit at least one other other purpose.)

The danger is always that basic black is so very easy. It's simple; it's prevalent; it connotes elegance; we're told "it goes with everything" and works for everyone, and that it's slimming. It seems so safe; what's supposed to be one of the workhorses of the well-dressed woman's wardrobe? The Little Black Dress.

My problem arose a few years ago, when I looked into my closet, flipped on the light, and had to look up to check whether the bulb was out. My closet was starting to look like the wardrobe of the Batcave. I know goth kids who probably owned less black.

In addition to being dark and, let's face it, boring in those quantities, black isn't really my best color. I don't look bad in it, but I look great in jewel tones. And the idea that black is always slimming is not really true; if it's not well cut, black clothing can actually make one look larger than not. It does not automatically make our figure flaws invisible--but if we're trying to hide behind it, it can make us invisible.

So now, when I look for dresses for tango or more general use, as for my Christmas outfit just now, I actively seek to avoid falling into the trap of the Little Black Dress. (Besides, black for Christmas is really not very festive.) Not long ago, I had to regretfully give up on an outfit from a small tango clothier when I learned that the top I had wanted was now available only in black. The pretty details that I liked about the shirt, I thought, would be lost in black-on-black; and the last thing I needed, I told myself, was more unrelieved Tango Black.

(I may still go back for that skirt sometime, if they've still got it. My favorite A-line skirt cannot, unfortunately, last forever.)

What I ended up finding was a gray dress with a pretty pattern of black flowers. I bought it online, so until I can try it on, I just have to hope that the cut will be as flattering on me as it looked on the screen.

Okay, so that's maybe not a whole lot better than solid black, and it's not exactly those jewel tones I had mentioned. But it still isn't plain black, and I think the flowers do a lot to make it cheerful and different. I plan to spice it up with a red beaded necklace and red shoes; I love the way red glows against a nice, cozy gray. I'm hoping it will also look nice with a blue-shaded scarf that I already own, and with a particular strand of purple beads. (Gray, black, and purple is another combination that I love, and that appears to have come around again in the stores this winter.)

For more encouragement to be brave and look beyond black, I cannot sufficiently recommend this reflection by the lovely Ms. Twistie, on the Manolo for the Big Girl blog: "Death to the Little Black Dress."


*I feel I should mention that I'm not generally a frivolous shopper; I will wear clothes that I like until they are beyond decent repair, and when they finally wear out, if I liked them that much, I usually try to get the same thing again, as nearly as possible. But even so, one sometimes just wants a little something new.

More people I want to dance like when I grow up

Pocho and Nely are my first tango grandparents. (They don't know it, of course.) But I think Osvaldo and Coca might be the other pair. Look what they can do!

Well said

Things I have been meaning to note, so I can remember...

From a post by TangoCherie a little while ago, on the close embrace:

People from "English" cultures are not used to being that close to someone who is not their sweetheart or beloved relative;  sometimes their emotions get all confused after a tanda of moving together as one, hugged so dearly by a stranger.

--"Don't Fear It, Embrace It!"

(I had thought I was fairly immune to this, but it turns out, not really, as I've mentioned. Doing better again more recently, though.)

...

A cousin of mine recently stayed with me, over the weekend of another cousin's wedding. (I have a lot of cousins.) One evening while she was here, we were amusing ourselves on YouTube, exchanging our favorite dance videos. I showed her one of Silvina Vals and Oliver Kolker dancing milonga, from a festival a few years ago.

"I never know quite what to make of it," I mused to her. "Over time, I've come to admire it more and more--which surprises me. Usually when teachers give demos like this, I worry that--although they are amazing to watch--everyone will want to dance like that on the social floor afterward. That's a really impossible situation. And then, I don't really know how to classify their dancing..."

I went on for a bit about stage vs. social and how this doesn't seem completely either to me.

In the end, my cousin simply remarked, "So they're dancing their tango."

Oh!

Hmm...

El maestro viejo

He demonstrates something of the evolution of the embrace and way of dancing vals over the centuries since it was introduced to Buenos Aires, beginning with a very open, formal embrace and winding up with the close embrace that we are all familiar with. He remarks that his parents had met while dancing this way, before the war--that this was how he came to be--and warns, with a twinkle in his eyes, that you have to be careful when you dance.

He recalls how he began dancing as a child, leading his mother and his aunt at home, before he ever made his milonga debut at age fourteen. Now he is silver-haired, going on seventy-six years old but seems to have the vigor of a man a third of his age--although I notice how he rations his energy at the milonga, dancing only occasionally, and generally only one or two songs with any partner, so that he can dance with as many of the women as possible.

(We're lucky to have him again in my little town. I'm especially glad, as I was not able to attend his workshops in Nearby City, and thought, with disappointment, that I was going to miss him entirely. Happily, not so!)

Dancing with him is like solving a complex puzzle. His leading is highly musical and intricate--formed, I think, from so many years of creative improvising in the tiny space available in crowded Buenos Aires milongas; one of my favorite aspects of dancing with the milongueros there. Above all, he is clear, unhurried, easy to follow, and he can feel the way his partners' bodies move and adjust seamlessly if we have followed somehow imperfectly. Years and years of practice--there is nothing like it.

And yet I do not like to think too much about how old these men and women are getting. It makes me sad.

What can any of us do but dance as much as we can, while we can?

I shaved my legs for this?

I recognize that my limitations in tango are mainly self-imposed.

Because milonguero style is by far not the preferred style in My Hometown, but I love it and am generally just not very interested in dancing open-embrace/nuevo style, or dancing tango to non-tango music.

Because I'm picky about who I will dance with and when. If we have had Bad Dances before, and I do not observe improvement in your dancing with others, no, I will probably not dance with you. Even partners that I like to dance, say, tango with, I may not care to dance milonga or vals with, if I've had unsuccessful dances with them to this music before. New partners, I would prefer to start with a tango until I see whether they can handle more. All because, having been fortunate enough to have seen what really wonderful tango can be, I am not often willing to suffer through a Bad Dance if I can help it.

Maybe this attitude is uncharitable of me, and maybe it's the opposite of the lessons I should  be taking from the wonderful tango experiences I've had with, generally, apparently very generous-spirited partners. Maybe it shows an area where I should work on trying to grow. But it is the fact of where I am right now.

But Hometown is not Buenos Aires--it is not even Big Nearby City or Other, Less-Big Nearby City. These attitudes sometimes limit me considerably.

And so, with a scarcity of good close-embrace partners tonight, even more than usual, and the music not working in my favor, I sat out a lot. When the last tanda proved to be some non-tango junk, I knew that I was unlikely to get another dance, but still I waited til the opening chords of "La Cumparsita" before taking my shoes off and heading home; everyone who was left to dance with had stuck with their partners from the previous tanda.

In all, I had danced five times in three and a half hours. Three of those dances weren't even whole tandas. (Thank you so much, DJ, for turning a traditional milonga tanda into an alternative set halfway through.)

I mean, most of them were perfectly nice dances. One, especially, was even very nice. But five dances? Was that worth the hurt and frustration of feeling so invisible? I can manage that, with less effort, more physical comfort, and less emotional pain, at home in my pajamas with a movie and a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Or I could have spent the evening with friends.

My restrictions, as I said, are primarily self-imposed, and I realize this, but I reserve the right to feel frustrated anyway. In spite of my internal rules, it does not always work out so badly. The measures I take to try to ensure an enjoyable evening for myself often work exactly as intended, instead of backfiring. It is not always like this.

Maybe I should have turned right around before paying admission, when I saw that only one of my regular partners was there. But I'd had hopes of the visitors from out of town, and you never know--maybe other good partners might have shown up.

I began to wonder whether I was an optimist or a masochist, for staying so long. It gets very difficult to tell the difference, sometimes.

But I thought of my one very nice dance and knew that I'd risk it again next time.

And, yes, I would probably shave my legs.

Let's do the Time Warp again!

The last time I went to the Tango Bar, I danced a lot, by comparison to other nights there recently. There were no sublime dances, but there were several fun ones. Although at times the wild dancing on a crowded floor prevented me from fully enjoying my dances, I laughed a lot that night.

At the last proper milonga in town, I happily danced even more--although only later in the evening. There were some glimpses of the sublime. A long tanda and "La Cumparsita" with one of my favorite local leaders--that was especially nice.

My friend's brand-new tango shoes are fantastic, and she reports that her feet don't hurt at all at the end of the night when she dances in them. "Who knew?" she asked. I smiled: "A lot of wiser tangueras than me."

At a friend's wedding this weekend, I fairly itched for a tango partner, but it was not possible. However, thanks to a combination of good friends, good music, and a leettle bit of champagne (eheh), I did dance a lot more than I usually do, to non-tango music.

Now, you must understand, that is really saying something; normally I might sit nearly the entire evening at a wedding reception, much too self-conscious to join in the dancing. I've always thought I was born with a congenital defect: I believed I was entirely without a groove thing. This girl's hips, they do not shake--or so I always thought. (Maybe I would get up for the Chicken Dance or the YMCA or something.) In fact, it is no secret that I think that part of my success at tango stems from the fact that I don't have to figure out to do with my hips or my arms--those troublesome but crucial elements of the way the kids dance these days.

Oh, but you may say, "Aha, she admits that the wine was flowing! Everyone thinks they can dance at such a time!" But I tell you, there were mirrors around the hall. And I had only the smallest bit of wine with dinner--I was, in fact, the designated driver for a friend that night. So I do not think that my self-perception was drastically altered. If anything, I am usually more apt to underestimate my abilities than to overestimate them--doubly so if there are mirrors around. And I tell you, my hips, they could move! With some rhythm, even! And my feet, they did as I asked them!

And most of all, I had a really good time with my friends! If I was giddy, it was because of them; I laughed with them until my sides hurt. And I decided afresh that I'd like to broaden my repertoire with salsa and swing, so that next time I'm wherever there might be music, I can dance even more.

(Another friend once taught me how to fake salsa--"falsa," I called it. It seems so accessible when you only have to fake it!)

So, I've managed to convince myself that I really could probably learn them; now to find lessons that fit my schedule. Don't worry, tango, you will always be my first love!

PS--VERY BEST MOMENT of another recent wedding: The groom's 90-year-old grandfather dancing to "Single Ladies," with moves from the video! I nearly died!

Science of the embrace?

NPR: "Human Connections Start with a Friendly Touch."

And then, sometimes...

Fucking tango.


I wish I could find where I originally read this, but I think the blog is gone. But this has really stuck with me. Here is how I remember it:

The woman was American, living in Buenos Aires long-term. One evening, one of the older milonguero/as, observing that she always left the milonga alone, told her, "Find someone to take care of you. The milonga is not enough."

I'm in a place like that, right now. Sometimes the milonga just makes things worse. This was one of those nights, in spite of and also because of my several very nice dances. What do you do with a dance where you embrace each different partner like a lover--and leave by yourself? It is so difficult for me to separate the two right now--the emotions of the dance and my emotions off the dance floor.

"The milonga is not enough."


Edit:

Found that passage again, by accident. It was in a post by Deby, writer of the blog TangoSpam/La Vida con Deby.

Finally she says to me "Find someone to take care of you.  Someone to love you.  Don't be alone.  The tango is not enough."

~La Vida con Deby: "The Milonga Chronicles: The Tango Is Not Enough."

Tango shoes on a non-tango blog

It appears that the superfantastic Plumcake, one of the writers of the Manolo for the Big Girl blog, enjoyed at least a brief flirtation with tango--or, anyway, with tango shoes, and apparently at some point with a tango instructor--some time ago.

"Holy Grail Found in Buenos Aires!"

"Two Thursdays ago found me on my knees with my head in the oven," she begins. (A tango-spirited opener if ever I've seen one!)

I wonder whether she ever pursued that interest.

I really don't find my tango shoes all that comfortable for much regular walking around--you know, firmly on my whole foot and forward-moving--but I strongly suspect that Ms. Plumcake is made of sterner stuff than I, where everyday footwear is concerned. She posts recommendations of many shoes that, although they are lovely and (I'm sure) fine for women who are practiced in the art of wearing high heels, I (a novice) quail at the thought of wearing for any length of time. (I'm looking--longingly--at you, Tiffany-blue fourth ones down! The Kate Spades are gorgeous and not much higher than my CIFs... but still a scary idea to me. Those little Mary Janes, now... But all of this is academic at the moment, as the budget is a little tight.)

I also wonder how many women are drawn to tango by the shoes. Conversely, I have been drawn to shoes by tango.

In related news, a friend who I helped introduce to tango a while ago just bought her first pairs of made-for-tango shoes! In red and black, and leopard print! She called from the festival in Nearby City to tell me, immediately after the purchase, and we rejoiced together.

*Sniffle* I'm so proud! I can't wait to see her dance in them; she says they feel great!