[See related post, after reading this one, for tango followers who want to soar.]
Hola from Buenos Aires. The dancing here is beyond words. But I must try.
Leaders: How many points of connection do you have with your partner? This is not a trick question, just a thought one. Lately, I’ve been aware more than ever of how the best tango dancing is qualified by a feeling that all points of contact with my partner, with the floor, with the air on my back, and the air in my lungs, bear perfectly equal pressure.
I believe in airborne tango – and that exactly describes what it feels like. It feels as if the pull of gravity is no more or less than the press of the man’s palm against my own; no more or less than his torso against my torso; no more or less than his right arm’s weight against my left side or than the push of my breath on my lungs; and equal, if opposite, to our horizontal momentum. In other words, it feels as if you could turn us sideways or upside-down and we’d still feel the dance same way.
I don’t know how you teach this. But I can tell you it seems more likely to occur with Argentines who dance what I call “organic tango.” They never learned to quantify the dance. They haven’t learned it from the feet up, maybe not even from the heart down. They learned it full body and mind—through watching, internalizing, knowing the music from the womb on. And what all else, I can’t say.
This is not to discourage non-Argentines. Only to direct awareness to the connection (and all points of body contact) and how vitally important it is. It can’t be overstressed. Indeed, I dance with Argentines who are “pile drivers” pushing me down into the ground until I feel like my body wants to collapse like an accordion or bandoneon. My hip joints scream. The balls of my feet start to burn. My core “chi” does double duty – saying, “just hang in there, this too shall pass.”
It’s interesting to note that if even one point of contact applies more or less pressure than the others, there is an off-balance feel and airborne tango cannot occur. My partner can be adept in many ways, but if he is squeezing the heck out of my hand, my awareness is pulled there. I let my hand go limp hoping he’ll notice. Or, there is the guy who will dig his fingertips into my back and it’s so distracting—like he’s trying to give me a shiatsu treatment as we dance. An old friend, Silvio, who is hard of hearing will not loosen his grip on my middle, for nada. When I wriggle, he says, stop wriggling. I yell in his hearing aid, I can’t breathe, you’re cutting off the circulation between my upper and lower body. Silvio is extreme and I only tolerate him because we go back to my first days here. Aside from my turning blue, we have a good time.
This equal application of pressure at all points changes from partner to partner, naturally, because of varying height, weight, and body mechanics. Dancing last night at El Beso, I noticed this with Hector, a friend and regular partner. Hector doesn’t do a lot of steps or patterns, but I could tango with him forever and never be bored, only energized. His lead is not just from the heart, it’s full body. We roll off each other as much as off the floor, as much as off the ceiling. There is a quiet contact of our palms, although occasionally, he’ll lower our hands down close to our bodies, as in canyengue. He knows how to do this. Our feet are at times incidental to the whole dance. Or so it seems. It is exquisite.
And then there was Roberto, an excellent tanguero. By contrast to Hector, Roberto knows a lot of steps and figures. He’s always fun. But he doesn’t yet have this “all-points-of-contact-must-be-equal” talent yet. He likes to do the rhythmic tandas and milonga with me. But when we did the milonga last night, his right arm pressed slightly too hard into my left armpit and it wasn’t possible because of our heights for me to lessen this. So, I had to pay close attention, at times guessing when his feet were traspie-ing because this one little extra pressure jumbled his signals to my “not-think message center.”
I am lucky to have found here three fabulous practice partners, all different styles of tango, all allowing my dance to soar. There is Oscar, who is purely organic, dancing for more than fifty years. Juan (whose real name is Manuco Firmani) teaches at Mora Godoy studio. He is young, a beautiful fantasía performer. We dance mostly open embrace and do a lot of colgadas, volcadas, sacadas, boleos, etc. You can see him teaching me in the video on my Home Page. (Contact him for lessons at [email protected]). And there is Joaquin Amenabar, a bandoneonista who teaches at two conservatories in Buenos Aires. As a musician, he understands the music deeply and in an extraordinarily articulate way. We practice once a week and it’s airborne quality. (See his book, Tango! Let’s Dance to the Music – he’s visiting the SF Bay Area in October and will offer a workshop on tango music. I highly recommend it.)
One more thing: A couple of weeks ago, at Club Fulgor, on Tuesday night, I danced with Andrew, a young American, who is blind, from San Francisco. Not only could he navigate the floor without bumping anyone, he had this equally-applied connection thing down. The women constantly invited him to dance. Obviously, he doesn’t cabaceo. If you come upon a tall blond, blue-eyed man sitting in a milonga reading the St. James Bible in braille (he’s a theology student), do invite him to dance. I guess what Andrew’s dancing demonstrates is that this ineffable connection is internal.
The quality of the dancing lately here has been so good. Thursdays at El Beso are my new favorite milonga. But that can change without notice. Between the winter cold and the misplaced fear of swine flu, the milongas are not crowded—but the good dancers still come.
I hope this has been helpful. I look forward to your thoughts and comments.