Farewell

I think I always knew of Michael Jackson. His music was played in our house even before we moved to the US. I knew him before I knew anything of American culture. Hell, to me he *WAS* American culture.

Billy Jean was the first thing I’ve ever choreographed to. It was at Ballet Hispanico, a jazz class. I’ve never been a jazz-y person, a fact I took great pride in at the time – “oh, I’m a classical dancer, blahblah”. But every time I’d hear Michael’s songs, I’d want to dance. His songs were impossible not to dance to. I started getting into jazz and other forms of dance because of his music, really. His songs made me feel alive and dancing to them even more so.

To me it’s a bit of an understatement to call him a legend. He was so much more than that.

“To this day, the music we created together on Off The Wall, Thriller and Bad is played in every corner of the world and the reason for that is because he had it all…talent, grace, professionalism and dedication. He was the consummate entertainer and his contributions and legacy will be felt upon the world forever. I’ve lost my little brother today, and part of my soul has gone with him.” – Quincy Jones

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Charlie lost an Angel today as well. Rest in peace, Farrah. You’re no longer in any pain.

Déjà vu

When my tango bootcamp began last summer, we danced to the same CD over and over again. Not sure why it was that one, but that’s how the cookie crumbled, and it was on constant repeat during those endless rehearsals. Each song a painful reminder that I was not good enough (yet), that he still saw me in a completely wrong light, that I was walking a tightrope, my heart in my throat. Or on my sleeve. Perhaps it’s a good thing men are oblivious to certain things…

Color Tango Orchestra – the soundtrack to my summer of 2008. Negracha, Mala Junta, Gallo Ciego, Para Dos…classics, all, and so many more that would be mindless noise in the background while he coached me on boleos that would not “whip around” or sinking my hips or countless other notes that were meant to make me a better dancer. Or the CD would be on full volume and we would tango, or rather I would try desperately hard to follow and fail equally miserably.

He gave me all of the CDs later on and during that summer I listened to tango even when I was not dancing. Practicing at home, scratching the gleaming wood floors, and promising to myself through gritted teeth that I would get him out of my head if it killed me AND that I’ll also become an amazing tango dancer into the bargain. Hmmm, well, we can assume that the latter wish is proceeding rather nicely, as for the former, I should be so lucky.

Not too long ago, he asked me to bring over a CD of tango to the practice space. While digging around iTunes and my now (rather vast) tango library, I picked songs that I knew I would always associate with those days, that beginning, which I was so certain was really the end.

I trooped over to the studio with a copy of Color Tango. We started to dance and I immediately remembered last May. Same movements, same partner, same studio, same month, even. Only now I was dancing, really dancing. Now I was no longer sleepwalking through life.

Last night as we were walking to the train station, he asked me if I’d ever seen Eyes Wide Shut. The question came completely out of the blue and I am surprised that I’d managed to keep walking. An innocent question, sure, only I’ve never been the one to believe in coincidences. I don’t remember my reply, something along the lines of me not thinking that it was Kubrick’s best (it isn’t!) and going off on tangent about specific things in the movie that I didn’t like.

I remember my wistful thought when I had just started writing this blog that he find it, read it, and understand it, understand me. That was before I realized that actually opening my mouth and talking to him, really talking, was the best way to get anywhere. Hiding behind anonymously written words and hoping that he would realize it’s my voice and my dreams, and coincidentally, save me from having to tell him all of this face to face. Sometimes my naïveté amazes even yours truly.

Be careful what you wish for? Did he really find it? Or was that question a perfect coincidence?

“Hello. I am Mademoiselle. It’s nice to…errr…meet you?”

Fatal attraction?

I hate stereotypes. Who doesn’t? Only there’s some truth in each stereotype, isn’t there? A tiny little bit, true, but there is always truth, hiding out somewhere, waiting to pounce when you least expect it to.

Not embarking on a long-winded rant about stereotypes in tango, though God knows there’s a post waiting to happen. No. What I want to write about is the stereotype of a tango instructor.

What do you think about when you think of tango? Passion, something dark and illicit, nocturnal, dangerous men in fedoras, even more dangerous women in fishnets (one mustn’t forget the ubiquitous fishnets) and high heels. The music, the seduction, and more often than not – that rawness. Oh yes, you know exactly what I am talking about.

Now let’s talk about tango instructors…

With all of this mystique surrounding us, mere mortals don’t have a chance. It helps enormously if you’re pleasant to look at. But even if you’re not that much to write home about, if you have this confidence, a certain je ne sais quoi, and a decent dancer… Oh la la, all bets are off.

Do not misunderstand me. I am absolutely not suggesting that we’re all going after our students. In fact, nothing could be more annoying for an instructor. Only… what does one do when these students are coming after you?

The classes that I am teaching now are a sociological experiment in and of themselves. Longing gazes, complete oblivion (from certain individuals), evil eyes cast upon certain dance partners of certain individuals, and this all in just the first 15 minutes of the class. All in all, fun and games, fun and games.

Only a flirtation is a flirtation, but when feelings begin to get involved… Damnation!

We are painting ourselves into a corner, dancing with illusions, creating an illusion for you, really, and thinking that it’s all going to turn out for the best.

But if it doesn’t?

Oh la la!

When I was done teaching my baby ballerinas, one of the mothers, who knows I dance tango as well, asked me if I’d seen the last episode of Dancing with the Stars. I am very meh about shows of that nature, but then she mentioned that “the sexy guy from that Sex and the City movie” did the tango. I pouted. “I bet it was ballroom tango” as in…go away, give me Argentine lust, passion, rawness, yaddah yaddah. But the magic words were said – the sexy guy? Which sexy guy? She couldn’t mean Jason Lewis, could she? The guy is admittedly hot but blue-eyed blonds have (sadly) never done anything for me. “No, no, no. It’s Samantha’s sexy neighbor. The one, who was naked all the time.”

Stop! The! Presses!

Yes, I am a red-blooded woman. With hormones. What, you thought I was a nun?

Linda was immediately typing in search keywords into YouTube, and I was practically on top of her desk, trying to see “the one, who was naked all the time” doing the tango.

Picture this if you will; dance studio owner, her ballet instructor, and 4 soccer moms crowded around a little desktop, panting. Yes, we were, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

Love the ganchos at 2:26!

It cracked me up how quite a few elements in their choreography exist in one of the dances my partner and I do. Sadly, that dance has been retired since our last performance (see next post as to why), but when I was watching the video, I immediately started memorizing the sequence. Lead/follow? Yes, certainly, but that’s where my old ballet habits die hard. Show me a dance, and I immediately start learning the combination first. *sigh*

Okay, so it’s not Forever Tango, but I was impressed. The guy didn’t do tango…ever, and now did a pretty decent job at it. She was a little disappointing. Had I not known that he was an actor, I would have thought that he was the professional dancer in that partnership. Of course it could also be my hormones talking, but I don’t think so… ;)

Yeah, last Wednesday there were one happy studio owner, a ballet instructor, and 4 soccer moms in a certain dance studio in a certain town in New York.

Now imagine what it was like for me to teach my 10 year olds how to pirouette after this, when all I wanted to do was pounce on my dance partner and start insisting that we begin working on new choreography.

Superhero.

X-Men's Rogue - my favorite superhero of all time.

Me. I am still figuring out my superpowers, but whatever. Curious? Keep reading.

At a friend’s recent birthday/engagement, I met this dude I was supposed to work for once upon a time. My friend tried to broker me working as his assistant, since I’ve so much experience running an art gallery and all </sarcasm> . This artist basically wanted a slave, and even though I needed money quite badly at the time, I simply couldn’t find the desire to work with/for him. I’d never met the guy, but kept getting a really weird vibe whenever we talked on the phone. Long story short, a few days before I was supposed to go over and “slave about”, I got a very convenient food poisoning, and that entire affair came to nothing.

I had no idea I was going to meet him at the party, but meet him I did, and that weird vibe only intensified. Considering he’d never seen me before, his jaw fairly dropped when we were introduced. (Does someone want to explain to me why my opinion of myself is so drastically different from that of the opposite sex?) He immediately asked me if I could work with him again, but the answer was an immediate no. We barely exchanged a few words, and I thought the episode over and done with.

A week or two passed, and I received a phone call. Would I be interested in posing for him? “Very kosher, I swear!” That’s when my vanity came out to play big time.

Both my mother and my aunt have had their portraits painted by artists, who were complete unknowns at the time. Right now these portraits of theirs could sell for a tidy sum involving quite a few zeros. Money held no interest for me, but I’ve always desperately wanted my portrait painted. Modeling is modeling, but I’ve never been drawn, and I really wanted that portrait. So when the Artist offered, I was flattered, weird vibe be damned (remind me to listen to my intuition all the time in the future, and agreed to pose. I’d seen some of his work before and it’s very pop-art, alive, vibrant, psychedelic almost, and he is definitely going places. My vanity was going places too. I was going to be immortalized, god damn it!

He bombarded me with texts and phone calls before our appointed sitting. I kept stressing that for me it was just a job, but kept getting a very uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t hearing me. I always go to these things alone, but for the first time in my life started thinking about bringing a chaperone. I dismissed all of these fears as irrational, and got ready for Saturday. Doomsday came and off I went to Hannibal Lecter’s studio.

When I arrived, he showed me some of his work, reviews, etc., and I started thinking that I once again blew things out of proportion. I was especially fascinated by the concept of the show I was going to be featured in so prominently. (Not just one portrait, incidentally, but a whole series, and I get to keep one. Hee!) Basically I am this one human, who is surrounded by life-size superhero figurines. Very macabre, tongue-in-cheek, and dark. In other words, right up my alley. SIGN ME UP!

I change and posing begins. The first hour was pretty awkward, and I was talking about anything and everything. “Oh, you’ve horoscopes pinned up in the bathroom. You’re into astrology?” I went into politics, religion, pretty much anything I could think of. What was the Artist thinking of? “So…how serious are you and your dance partner? Are you only dance partners or…you know…partners partners?”

I cut him off by saying that the situation is complicated. Does the boy quit? LIKE HELL! You could have set the clock by the number of times he asked me about my personal life, asking me out to dinner/coffee/drinks, so on and so forth. This one-sided duologue while I am posing. Not to toot my own horn, but those pictures (he is going to be drawing from them) came out pretty awesome </toot>, but good picture or no good picture, I was so idiotically uncomfortable, I was ready to run out then and there, genius artist and being immortalized be damned.

The highlight was when he asked me if I’d be interested in posing nude. *headdesk* Next time my gut tries to tell me something, I swear I will always listen to it!

I keep thinking, what’s wrong with me? Here is a guy, who is perfectly charming (only he makes my skin crawl, but I am sure plenty of girls would find him attractive), who is ridiculously into me, is talented and creative. In other words, everything that I am looking for, only when he tried to embrace me at the end of the sitting, I jumped away. Literally. Oy! Does he stop asking me out after this? HAH!

The show opens in two weeks. I am dying to know what the work looks like, and am not a little scared that he will probably make me look like this.

Smiling through tears.

This is such a typical conversation I would have with my therapist, that I actually emailed her this comic strip.

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My grandmother and I were talking about something inconsequential a few days ago. She was belaboring the fact that I was so picky in my choice of men. (What does the woman want me to do? Sleep around? Jeez!)

Me: Sorry. I guess I am my mother’s daughter. It takes us a while to like someone and once we do, we like them for good.

Grandma: I know you’re just like your mother. Your problem, just like your mother’s, is that you’re too smart. If you weren’t, anyone would do. But no, you’re both too smart for your own good, and picky, so goddamn picky!

Me: … O.0

The sky already fell. I already fell in love. Now all I need is for hell to freeze over, and then maybe, just maybe, my wish will come true.

For the sake of writing.

Nothing really happened to trigger it. I was going about my life as before, but this wretched little creature I fondly call Depression decided to pounce again. Perhaps it’s just PMS, perhaps it’s anemia kicking in. Perhaps it’s me not wanting to see something that’s painfully obvious. Or it could be me seeing something that’s not there, making a mountain out of a molehill, and causing myself grief for no reason whatsoever.

I am speaking in riddles, but not for the sake of being cryptic. My mind is not functioning; it’s going around in circles and all I can feel is pain. Maybe it’s good. The last time I started spiraling downward, I couldn’t feel any pain. I disassociated completely. When I felt the razor blade, that’s what “woke” me up. Now pain is present, constantly present.

I feel like a selfish, egotistical bitch complaining about my sorrows when there are others suffering from something that’s infinitely worse. But this is what I am feeling and I cannot make any excuses for it.

Before, dance would drag me out. I would choreograph, and the pain would, if not abate, then at least go away for a little while. There is a reason why I don’t show my choreography to many. By looking at it, it’s obvious what’s going on in my life. Someone, who saw my work once, turned at me, looked at me hard, and asked, “how are you still alive?” He was captivated by what my dances were like, but was afraid for my sanity, was afraid for me. I, however, was not. I was past caring either way.

This is not a letter crying out for help. I am stronger now, much stronger than I was a year, five years, a decade ago. My choreography still amazes people, but they are no longer afraid that I am going to take a long drive off a short cliff. But I need to purge, and the one person I can say all of this to will not be able to hear me. He is the reason why I am feeling like this, but I see no way out.

He was right. Partners should never get involved. Only now it’s too late, and I don’t know what to do.

Songs without words.

I can’t talk about things I am upset about unless I am ready. If I open my mouth before that “ready point”, I turn into a sarcastic bitch from hell, relying on every defense I know to keep from getting hurt. It goes without saying that it’s this behavior that hurts me the most – not being able to talk about what’s bothering me. And so, I turn to sarcasm – my dubious “savior” – and end up hurting myself even more. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit” and all that, I know. I haven’t been feeling especially witty lately. Or wise. Or anything else other than heart-broken.

But…not being able to talk about it, doesn’t mean that I can’t write about it.

This situation being what it is, I have no right to make any demands or to get jealous. While I am not – cannot, really – make demands (Bloody fairness. Why do I have to be so fucking fair?),jealousy is a whole other ball game. He doesn’t have any right to be jealous either. Or possessive. But that’s exactly what he does. We are stuck in this hell of our own making; this idiotic impasse driving me insane and making me utterly miserable. I don’t know what it’s doing to him, but I doubt he is any happier.

It’s beyond foolish of me to expect him to lead a monastic lifestyle. Only I’ve been really very fond of that whole “ignorance is bliss” mentality, and so if I can’t “see” something, or sense it, or feel it, that means it doesn’t exist. You know when children are playing hide-and-seek and the smallest ones cover their eyes, thinking that if they cannot see anyone, then they cannot be seen as well? It’s like that.

Instead, all of my explanations go into my tango. Even before things snowballed between us, everything that I felt, everything that I wanted to say but couldn’t – all of it was in the dance.

I close my eyes when I dance with him. I never thought of it as an especially romantic thing to do. For me it’s only part of giving myself over completely.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see him kissing her. Some nonentity, a fling, nothing serious. But that picture replays over and over in my mind, and I freeze. All over again.

Tragedy.

The world is a very small place and tango communities are even smaller and tightly-knit microcosms within. This Saturday’s news shocked everyone – those who knew Marilyn and Dennis and those who did not.

I did not know Marilyn personally, but knew Dennis. I’ve seen them dance a few times at various milongas. They were so very in love, it seemed like there was a glow enveloping those two. Their tango was all the more magical for it.

Marilyn was hit by a drunk driver at 3:30 on a Saturday morning. She died immediately. Her boyfriend – Dennis – was taken to St.Vincent’s hospital in a critical condition.

I wonder if they were coming home from a milonga that night.

More here.

This is Marilyn’s and Dennis’s page on Facebook. I cannot look at the pictures without crying all over again.

Life is so infinitely short and so precious. They were so truly in love and were going to get married, and now that is all taken away.

I feel so cold inside.

Follow the leader.

There are never enough leaders in tango classes/practicas/milongas/(fill in the blank), and so my partner has been teaching me how to lead.

I’ve always wanted to learn how to lead! I have this persistent belief that it would also make me a better follower, if I knew both sides of the story, as it were. And now Tango Gods heard my prayers and gave me an amazing leader, who first taught me how to follow, and is now teaching me how to lead. (Does this mean that I am now an amazing follower? I don’t know. But it’s still flattering.)

Remember me whining about how I was terrified about dancing with him at first because of our height difference? So now instead of following a 6 ft. tall guy, I am leading him. I love the smell of irony in the morning. You know the funniest thing? All of a sudden, this little (no pun intended) problem of mine about height disappeared! Maybe because I am concentrating on leading, or maybe because I realized that height does not matter and never has. Hallelujah for belated epiphanies.

I’ll never forget dancing with my maestra during one of our privates and having her lead me better than most men. That’s probably when the germ of the idea of wanting to lead has been planted in my brain. I still can’t get over the fact how confident she is as a leader; no hesitation, knowing what she wants and going after it. Quite predatory almost.

A lot of that “no hesitation” leading comes from experience and endless amounts of practice. I find myself still dithering at times, unsure where I want to go next. I’ve been extremely lucky with my followers because they follow impeccably. The mistakes they make are the same I used to make a year ago. Some are still present, and I am fighting tooth and nail to get rid of them, but it’s slow going. But when they’re making those mistakes and I can fix some of them and they continue dancing without making that mistake again. Well… there’s no feeling like that in the whole world.

Leading has reaffirmed my belief in how much I love teaching. Not everyone can do it.  A lot of excellent instructors have so much to say, but don’t have a way of expressing themselves. Some do, others cannot. And so the knowledge that they have is gone, because they cannot find a way to pass it on.

When I teach ballet, I give my students everything I have and everything I know. I catch myself many times repeating the same phrases my ballet instructors have used and then I start smiling. The torch has been passed, in a way. And when my students understand what I am explaining, then I am on top of the world. They are making progress, they are learning! I am teaching them how to do what I love most in the world – to dance – and they are getting it.