Before the madness, I started taking tango classes. AlI in all, I took four classes at a studio called A Puro Tango. Salsa would be easier and more logical here, to find partners, to find places. But the discreetness, the restraint of tango captivates me. It reminds me of a scene from the “The Remains of the Day”, where Stevens, talks about the British landscape as the most beautiful landscape, precisely because it does not seek to shock you with wildness, abundance, colors. Tango, in its essence, is a dance defined by walking, but one must walk very attentively. The attention has to be absolute, Zenlike – a woman cannot do a move without a man prompting her, neither can she guess the sequence, and veer off on her own, let her mind wander. “But I didn’t turn you yet,” would say my instructor, John Angel. “Why did you turn? Don’t anticipate, pay attention. Don’t look at yourself in the mirror, don’t look at your feet. Listen with your body. Don’t rush.” Now, one could – and it would be easier to – interpret tango as purely machista. A man leads, a woman follows. A man acts, a woman reacts. But I feel differently, I feel that in the world, where we increasingly give answers before we hear the question, where we move on our own with no strings and no responsibilities attached, tango teaches you to be interdependent, to be in step with your partner, one step at a time. To pay attention and to be present, to honor here and now, to love the man, to love the music, one moment at a time.
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