The answer is always, Yes, dance!

With gratitude for the inspiration of SallyCat--again.

Summer 2009:

I have just finished dinner in the apartment in Buenos Aires. L, my friend, traveling companion, and all-around partner in crime, has left to return to the States, as scheduled, so I face the prospect of almost another week by myself before my own return.

I had not realized how much her cheerful company had made the trip more fun--nor how comforting it was, in this city we knew so little, to have someone around who was generally as lost and confused as I was.

I noticed it immediately, after seeing her safely into her taxi for the airport: the little apartment was so quiet with just me in it. I cried a little bit, out of loneliness, and turned on the TV for some noise. It is the first time I have turned on the TV since I had been there--up til then I had used the radio, on what seemed to be a 24-hour tango station, oh glorious!--and I left it on all afternoon, into the evening.

As I wash up after dinner, I consider whether I should go out to the milongas that night. Would I really have a good time dancing, as homesick as I was feeling? It would be the first night I'd stayed in since I'd arrived. I could call Sr. and Sra. and make my excuses. Surely no one could blame me if I just took a night off to adjust and get my mood in order...

Uh-uh, said a little voice in my head. You didn't come all the way to Argentina to sit in your room and watch American sitcom reruns on TV! Think how L would scold you for that! You came here to dance, and you're going to go out there and meet your friends who are expecting you, and you are going to dance!

So I got cleaned up, had a fortifying bite of chocolate, and headed out to the milonga. And it was the best thing I could have done.

New Year's Day, 2011:

I am embarrassed and upset over the bad night at the New Year's Eve milonga in Nearby City. I sleep late on my cousin's couch, and then I laze around, reading, as long as I can. I put on an Internet tango radio station for noise.

As the sun starts to set, I know that I need to make up my mind whether I am going out this evening or not. If I am, then I need to start getting ready to go to dinner with my cousin.

I could just stay in, I think. Maybe it would be better to give the milonga tonight a pass. Spend more time with my cousin. Finish my book. Yesterday had been a very rough night, and surely nobody could blame me if I wanted to skip it tonight. With the mood I was in, would I really have fun anyway?

Uh-uh, says that little voice in my head--which sounds a bit like a drill sergeant, sometimes. You didn't come all the way here just to sit around in your pajamas and read! You came here to dance, and you are going to clean yourself up for a nice dinner, and you're going to go to the milonga and see whether there are any friends there, and you are going to dance!

And so I did. And it was the best thing I could have done.

History repeating?

I think it was two years ago that I first went to Nearby City with tango friends to dance over New Year's.

(...Yes, I think it must have been, because last year I spent New Year's home with a disgusting cold, watching a marathon of The Thin Man movies on TV. At least someone in the house was terribly glamorous and witty and jet-setting, even if it was only the people on the screen!)

That year, the dancing on the Eve was not so good for me. It was a rowdy, mostly open-embrace group, and I didn't dance much. But I got to know my traveling companions better, I replaced my worn-out black winter coat with a beautiful red one (opening my mind to the idea that black was not the only choice for my winter outerwear), and the seeds of my eventual trip to Buenos Aires were planted with the encouragement of a friend--because the dancing at a different milonga, on New Year's Day, was marvelous. I had as many dances as I could handle with partners new and old, who remain some of my favorites in the area.

It was all strangely echoed this year. Again, the milonga on New Year's Eve was not a good one for me (for reasons beyond just the prevailing dance style, but let's skim over that). It was too viciously cold for my pretty red coat--had to wear the heavier long one (which, by the way, is also not black; yay, colors!)--but I wore my rather stunning red dress, so at least I looked quite fabulous, in spite of the difficult night.

(It has been said before by others, but apparently it always bears saying again... Gentlemen, when you are dancing with a lady at a social event--not at a class or a practica, where one is seeking to learn new things and practice the things that give one trouble--and she has difficulty with a particular step, it is good manners and considerate dancing not to keep repeating that step as though you are hoping she'll have a sudden breakthrough if you just do it again and again. She might, I suppose; she may be able to identify and correct the problem without help--if it really is a problem with her following ... But more likely she will find herself deeply embarrassed in public, when in fact she may be a very competent dancer, at an event where everyone's main concern should only be to enjoy themselves with lovely dances. 

(I may write more about this later, because this is, unfortunately, also something that appears to repeat itself, with different partners and who-can-predict which steps. Also, I have some thoughts on the felicitous organization of special events at a milonga. But anyway.)


I was daunted to the point of considering staying home the next night, but I'm pretty stubborn and generally a believer in getting back up on the horse (or, in this case, the milonga) that threw you--and, besides, I knew this one was under the charge of different organizers, the same pair who had run the one that had gone so well for me two years ago, so I hoped it would again be better.

And it was. Once again, I had almost as many dances as I could handle from a number of lovely partners who, once again, made me feel wonderfully welcome. By the time I left, I was limping on tired, happy feet.

To anyone who may read this, I wish you a warm and lovely new year--with lots of beautiful dances!

Beauty/truth

"This is the tango community: A bunch of people who touch each other as if this were what human beings do best."

--Tango Beat: "Tango Uniform (A Christmas Story)" 

"He wants the woman to feel secure and relaxed. I realised that in the beginning he deliberately played his dance cards close to he chest because he was taking care of me. He sensed me. He found me. He knew what I could handle. He didn’t want to embarrass me in the Milonga, he kept me safe and always made me feel that I was amazing. That was his gift to me." 

--SallyCat: "More Tango Lessons" 

"By the final tango in the tanda, every hint of his physical tremor is completely gone. I am dancing with the spirit of a young man and with a soul that has danced for over fifty years. I become certain that we are dancing in the 1930s, that we have chosen each other in a packed tango hall where a live orchestra is playing, that I am the only woman in his world and that he is the only man in mine."

--SallyCat: "The Essence of Tango?"  

Warm dancing on cold evenings

I've been on a badly needed vacation, and it was my second night of dancing in an entirely new city. My first night there was at a small milonga at a lovely studio downtown--mainly older dancers, not students. It was a nice introduction to their community; I had several nice dances and started meeting people, and they were very friendly and welcoming.

But the second night. Wow.

The milonga was held in a chilly church basement on a university campus. Not the most prepossessing venue, but I think we all know by now not to judge tango solely on appearances, no? The turnout still wasn't huge, but it was a bit larger than the previous night. This group tended toward a younger crowd, being sponsored by the university tango club, but a number of the dancers from the previous night were there again--and again extended a warm welcome to me.

Wow. That was a good group of leaders. Once things got warmed up for me, I danced almost solid until the end of the milonga, and, though not all were entirely great, there was not a bad dance in the bunch. Most were very, very good; the leaders made me feel well cared-for and graceful. A few surprised me, because I wouldn't have thought, from watching them with other women, that we would dance well together--but they turned out to be some of my best dances that evening. So nice when it works out that way. It was by far the best milonga, overall, that I've been to in a long time.

Sometimes, when I'm having a good evening like that--when I'm connecting well with my partners and with the music, when all that practice means that I can move with grace and ease ... when it's all coming together--I become, for a while, the person I want to be all the time. Elegant and powerful. Un-self-conscious. I smile with the pleasure of working through challenges, and I laugh at mistakes and brush them aside. I'm not competing with anyone. There is only my partner and me and the music, only the enjoyment of this moment, and I can live in it completely.

And that leaves the smile lingering on my face as I wrap up well and step out into the very cold night.

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.