Tango Marathon

On Saturday, Sarah and I completed this tango-rrific week with a twelve-hour tango marathon at our Fishtown studio. Being the studio's unofficial in-house photographer, I spent most of the time with my camera slung around my neck and my eye behind the viewfinder, trying to find innovative tango pictures to take. One would think that this would get increasingly difficult-- I mean, how many different angles of couples wrapped in each others arms and doing boleos can one find? As I found out though, it's amazing the different angles, lights and moments one can encounter in a given tango event, and even in this one large, rectangular space that houses the Philadelphia Argentine Tango School.

The studio is the first floor of a three-story building standing outlandishly tall in a flat, open space, just as rectangular and nondescript as all the other buildings in Fishtown. To its left is a large yard of sorts-- a flat, unkempt grassy area randomly scattered with the most absurd objects: An abandoned truck streaked with pepto-pink paint in a camouflage pattern, a giant, red icosahedron-like object (never actually counted how many sides it has) with white numbers painted on each surface, a sign, and a couple bare, scraggly trees, utterly dwarfed by the adjacent building. Behind these objects, the blue sky stretches like a misplaced backdrop.

Fishtown appears to be a hair away from being deemed an Abandoned Town. At first, second, and third glance, a passer-by would assume that nothing much happens here. As Sarah and I followed the river painted on the whitewashed wall to the studio, we passed by a large fenced-in yard of sorts, overgrown with weeds and dead grass. Low crumbling brick walls formed the far border of the yard. A spare tire sat idlely in the center, sunk into the grass. It's so ghetto that I could only compare it to a city in a war-torn nation.

"I feel like I'm in Erbil," I commented to Sarah. We giggled.

"Is it...the run-down walls...or the random tire...or..."

In fact, it's shady, ghetto and rundown...but it's not quite abandoned. The tango studio is there now, and there are a couple nice cafes and art galleries. One only has to look beyond the forlorn exterior of the nondescript building that stands like a giant stone block on 5th street to see that in fact, a chunk of the soul of Argentina had broken off and landed itself haphazardly in the middle of this ugly town just outside of Philly central. Even before the evening milonga, workshops were taking place since 2pm, during which the guest instructors taught us how to insert boleos in all the wrong places and how to hang from your partner's arm and spin in circles until you had to center your hand between your eyes to re-steady yourself.

I emerged from the studio in the late afternoon for a break before the last workshop, and was struck by a change in appearance of the Field of Absurd Objects (FAO) next door. Under the late afternoon light, the Objects sparkled and glinted gold, and in this new light, the FAO actually looked beautiful in its absurdity. I found myself thinking that light can transform the mundane into the most extraordinary sight-- how true this was in reality as much as in photographs.

After a snooze at the corner cafe, and a few pages of Tolstoy read aloud in a British accent-- because I can't do a Russian one-- Sarah and I returned to the studio for the musicality workshop and at last, the milonga. As the dance commenced, I alternated between my camera and various dance partners, but eventually, I lost myself completely behind the viewfinder and witnessed some really beautiful tango moments from there. The sources of light were 5 or 6 small spotlights set along the walls on the dance floor and aimed toward the ceiling, a bright lamp in the corner housing the jazz quartet, a few candles along the windowsill, and a cheap, red-orange disco-globe near the entrance.

These various light sources created the most extraordinary effects within this room. An alien green light shone on the walls near the entrance, fantastically complementing the red light from the disco-globe, and the spotlights aimed at the ceiling created larger-than-life shadows of the jazz quartet along the wall opposite the mirrored one. As the room became packed with couples whirling around to tango music, the high ceiling came to life with their shadows, continually playing and morphing into each other for the entire night. The play of shadows was utterly mesmerizing.

Below the shadow theater, men and women danced in close embrace, in more-or-less counter-clockwise motion “in the line of dance“. The women are especially lovely to observe for the creativity they put into their outfits, their make-up, hairdos, and sparkly heels. One girl donned a dress that matched the entire room, including all the different colored lights and the paintings hanging from the walls. It was a beautiful moment when she passed by the blue-and-green painting with the far wall near the entrance glowing pinkish-red behind her.

 As an aside, sometimes I find it unbelievable that so many gorgeous women gather in this room, and the young men who prefer clubs and bars have no idea that tango is the place to go for the classier sort of ladies. It seems to me that tango attracts three kinds of people:

-the older crowd, men and women;

-the younger, nerdier men

-the younger women seeking elegance, romance, and an excuse to play dress-up every week.

In truth, tango attracts some really strange people, I have found. But maybe humanity in general is strange and off-balance, and I never noticed this until I had to dance with them in an intimate embrace and smell their sweat and breath.

I stood in a corner of the room with my eye to my camera, watching couple after couple passing through my viewfinder-- an arm, a back, a face, clasped hands-- over and over these body parts weaved in and out of my sight. One couple lingered in my corner for a while. The girl's large, expressive doll eyes peered over her partner's shoulder, her thick lashes casting shadows around her eyes.

Eventually, they moved on, passing out of my viewfinder.

At midnight, Javier and Kara, the guest instructors performed three numbers for us. Their style appeared to me to be more traditional-- and much more complex according to Meredith. The last one, though was performed to a more poppy song, and I watched transfixed as Kara's plum-colored skirt billowed in and out of my viewfinder, visually matching the lyrical mood of the song. Their strength lay in their hands-- both had strong, sturdy-looking hands, and placed them firmly and deliberately wherever they needed to go, with fingers splayed out and full of energy. Kara's pale hands glowed almost translucently against Javier's dark brown jacket, her nails painted to match her jet-black hair. 

Towards the end of the night, I wandered to the entrance and saw a baby carrier chillin on the floor next to the check-in table where Carolyn sat awaiting new arrivals. Inside was the tiny tango baby I had seen before in the studio, buried in his blankets and fast asleep as always. Itsuki and I cooed over the adorable boy until he awoke. If eyes said anything about the person, this baby boy would grow up to be a remarkable human being. Such serious, solemn eyes I had never seen on such a tiny face. He stared up at us without crying, only curious and alert, then delighted as we tickled its feet and played that ever-engrossing game called “Peek-a-boo”. Babies laugh so easily. They will laugh just by seeing you laugh. They laugh without even knowing why. Of course, adults may do the same.

Prasad, the tango baby stared out into the dance floor as his mother held him in her arms. Another woman came over and embraced his mother, sandwiching the baby as he continued to stare out with his large, solemn eyes. Eventually, he was carried over to the check-in table so that his mother and father could change him.

Reverie

This evening, as I walked out of the ballet studio, I felt as if I was coming out of a reverie. Tonight's class was especially entrancing. Because it was a basic beginner class, I allowed my mind to wander at times and lose myself in details. A hand, darkened by the corner lamp's gold light, rose slightly and then fell out of silhouette, then back into silhouette; out of silhouette, into silhouette. Rise! and fall. Inhale! and exhale. Hands can breathe in ballet, I realize. My eyes intently followed the motion of my own hand as it rose and curved down, then up and out during the warm-up plies, and I felt myself becoming hypnotized by its motion. It is a form of meditation, having the same effect of quieting and focusing my mind. These days, I start every morning with this plie-warm up and then more, and then my day begins happily, no matter what happens as it runs its course.

In the studio upstairs from Congressman Joe Sestak's campaign office, we learned the details of the chasse and practiced this new move across the floor with steadily shortening count for each chasse. As we chassed faster and faster, I felt like a musketeer parrying in a duel and felt the urge to shout "en garde!" as my feet chased each other across the floor. The movements of ballet had originated from the martial art of fencing in the days of King Louis XIV, and the connection was obvious in movements such as this ridiculous musketeer shuffle. In general, I've found that the job of the ballerina is to make ridiculous moves look sublimely graceful. Like how to plie in the wide second position stance without looking like one is squatting over an extra-wide toilet.

In ballet, we even learn to trip gracefully.

Half of what I learn is through observation of our amazing instructor. During Tuesday's class, there was a moment when I suddenly felt extremely lucky. How extraordinary was it that ordinary Angie gets the chance to study with a man who traveled all the way to Moscow and Latvia at the age of 16 to inadvertently train at the Bolshoi, then advertently with the Riga Choreography School, and then brought all that he learned-- not in books and paper but in his very being-- to Philadelphia of all places. I suddenly found all this very extraordinary and improbable. I listened with the utmost care as he lectured us yet again on the importance of hand placement.

"In ballet, this never happens," he informed us as his hand dipped down and paused at crotch-level. Giggles abounded. "Ballet takes the best parts of being human-- not that it denies human sexuality...it just doesn't advertise it. So I don't want to see any of this 'Mother Earth' business." The giggles exploded into outright laughter. It's not every day the word "sex" or any of its euphemisms and variations enters a ballet studio. Of course, ours was no ordinary prim and proper ballet studio. Rarely do I see my classmates dressed in the proper dress code of black leotard and pink tights, I myself wear leggings, and there is even a boy that has sported striped rainbow socks every time I've seen him in class. We were a good match on the week of Halloween, when I came in wearing purple and black striped tights with a horribly clashing t-shirt exploding with bright colors.

Anyway, what he said about ballet's humanity made sense until I thought about it later. What were the best parts of being human? It wasn't immediately clear to me, for some reason, that he was referring to the physical human body. However, it is precisely our body that distinguishes us from the angels. It is our body that rose up and learned to walk upright eons ago. I found myself wondering about the origins of ballet's now classical poses and movements: Who decided that these were ideally beautiful? And how were they created in the first place? Out of curiosity, I began to read online about the origins of ballet, and made the curious discovery that the creation of the attitude position-- with one leg extended behind you and bent at the knee-- was inspired by a 15th century Giambologna sculpture of the god Mercury/Hermes. This discovery reaffirms the dance photographer's notion that dancers are like animated statues. Truly, watching a performance gives me the sense of watching statues come alive.

Moreover, I found it curious that ballet, which takes the best parts of being human, was in this case inspired by the figure of a god...which in turn was inspired by human models. To me, this seemed to reaffirm the essential humanness of the concept of gods...or God. There seems to be very few things in this world that don't reek of the scent of us. Not that I mind. In fact, I celebrate it...with plies and attitudes and arabesques.

There is magic happening in this room every single day.

This is what I thought tonight as I closed the silver door behind me and awoke from my reverie.

Springorama!

First bbq of the season-- check! I love sun. Happy Spring everyone! Naw Roz Pirozbet...or something. This time last year, I went out into the hills and saw kites flying and women and girls in sequined dresses and grass and picnics in the grass and circle dancing with tribal cries. This time this year, I am at Rittenhouse Park lying on a cement ledge with eyes closed, pretending to be on a beach with the sound of ocean waves being artificially created by my own mouth and vocal chords. I am surrounded by babies and dogs and buskers with lovely voices and buskers with awful voices and hippie hula hoopers. I am fascinated by the way babies have this internal centrifugal force that drives them around tree barks or poles, making endless circles. I tried this once, and it was fun. One can learn a lot from babies. The most unattractive thing about babies and toddlers is that they often have snot oozing out of both nostrils, and they don't even know it. It means nothing to them. I saw this the other day when I passed by a group of daycare babies in a red mega-stroller piled high with little ones. My thoughts wander freely.

In time, five minutes of sunny, warm bliss is up! I open my eyes, see branches zig-zagging across a clear, blue sky, jump off the cement ledge and head to ballet. I could be anywhere, getting a job anyplace, making plans to travel the world, going to school in sunny Santa Barbara where real beaches lay and ocean sounds are made by ocean waves. But I've found something better than all this. I always assumed it would be a boy that would anchor me, and the desire to have a family with said boy and all that nonsense. Instead, I've found something better than all this. True, it might not last forever, but nothing lasts forever. I'll find a way to make this work money-wise. I'd always been envious of those who had a single passion that they could throw themselves into regardless of the risk, just because they loved it so much that it comes to define who they are, and their very name is associated with it.

"Oh, Holly? She's the opera singer. Rit? He's the film guy. Sujit? Born physicist. There is nothing else he'd rather do." And that son of the Iranian artist, a born graphic artist, so much so that the creator of Tom & Jerry would cut off his hand so that he may never stop his work. I've always wanted to be defined. I believe this is where my curiosity for everything under the sun originates. I've spent the past 4 years since graduating college trying to define myself with this notion that the world was my oyster, and I was free to explore anything now that I was free from the bonds of school.

It's risky business throwing your entire being into one thing, or one person. You could come out of it with much gained but nothing really to show for it. You could come out alone, or penniless, or just an amateur. I can think of a number of things in my life that hold this risk: photography, Adam, and now ballet. Languages. No...that will definitely take me somewhere. Anyway, I don't regret any of it.

Just have to bide my time and put ideas into action, which is always the hard part.

A Series of Paintings; Math & Ballet

I performed on stage tonight for the first time in...since high school. Which, believe it or not, was a decade ago. My "dance", called "body cartography", was a post-modern creation: 7 or 8 of us stood in a line, dressed in colorful street clothes, and jumped up and down for 5 minutes straight, then side-to-side for another couple minutes. I have a feeling we looked like a bunch of skittles bopping around on stage. It was very silly and fun and aerobic. Afterward, we stood still and focused on our organs, then muscles, then sent stuff out of our skin toward the audience. I could feel a bead of sweat pouring down the left side of my face as my skin tingled and radiated.

After the blackout, I skedaddled into the wings while the rest of my fellow jumpers walked right into the audience and took a seat to enjoy the rest of the show. From here, I photographed a stage performance for the first time ever! The first thing I had to figure out was how to compensate for the gajillion-watted spotlights. That's an issue I've never had before in photographing tango events-- too much light! It was nice because it gave me an opportunity to stop down my shutter speed and capture movement with clarity rather than blur-- artistic blur, but blur nonetheless.

As I crouched in the wings with my camera, the music changed to something outer-space/star wars-like, and suddenly I felt like an explorer on a strange planet, observing these alien avatar creatures crouching like beasts and leaping in sync and climbing on top of each other, forming a tangle of arms and legs. It was such an incredible experience.

Lots of people say that with a camera, you can't experience the fullness of reality because you're too busy viewing through a lens and clicking away. Sometimes this is true, but other times, it's not so much a lesser experience than a totally different one. Cameras make you see things differently. You are in a separate plane from reality-- separated by a lens-- and yet more focused on the details that go unnoticed by people whose view is not boxed in by the size of the viewfinder. The viewfinder frames scenes in a particular way so you start seeing reality as a series of pictures or paintings.

During the subway ride to the event, a girl sat across from me, constantly changing the position of her head as if she couldn't find a comfortable spot, but always using her hand to support her head, and eyes always downcast. She looked so incredibly tired and sad, and yet, I was struck by how much she resembled the old paintings of the Madonna, or whatever random woman model...her pose was utterly classical, incongruously set within a dirty subway speeding through the 21st century.

Last weekend, at a dance bar called Time, Jess and I were waiting at the counter for water, when suddenly she pointed out this incredible vision of a girl's face lit up ghostly white next to the DJ's table. This mask-like paleness contrasted sharply with the surrounding blackness that permeated the space around her. Her huge eyes stared out from disturbingly long, black eyelashes. Maybe the shadows lengthened them, I don't know. It was haunting at any rate. For a brief moment, I felt slightly more intoxicated, as if maybe the absinthe was doing its hallucinogenic magic after all.

The other night, before I left the tango studio, Meredith beckoned me toward a car seat set amidst the piles of coats and bags near door. Inside this car seat was the most adorable half-Indian, half-white baby boy, sound asleep, while his parents tangoed the night away. How was it that he was undisturbed by all the activity and noise outside of his little bed-on-the-go? One could only guess what he was dreaming about with all these grown-up figures waltzing and whirling around him in the dim orange light, and tango music seeping into his subconscious mind. As Meredith and I lingered outside of the studio, we watched amazed as the couples on the other side of the glass danced in time to music that we could not hear. This is what it was like to be deaf, I thought. To see people moving to imaginary rhythms, as if they all shared the same internal clock. Hey it's like watching an ipod dance party!

The other day, after ballet class, we fell into conversation with our instructor, and he told us a very interesting thing about first arabesques. First arabesque, where both the arms and the legs are opened toward the audience, is the ballet equivalent of e^ipi + 1 = 0. In other words, it's considered to be the most beautiful position in ballet, the very symbol of classical ballet. A good first arabesque position gives the illusion of a very long line from fingertips to toes, and this is what makes arabesques so beautiful. "Ballet is about living line," as our instructor once said.

For some reason, as he explained the intricacies of this symbol of ballet, I suddenly thought of a lecture I once had in an undergraduate math course. We were going into projectile geometry, and the professor compared the point of infinity to the point where the parallel lines of a railroad track appear to meet. Of course, in reality, they would never meet, given that they are perfectly parallel lines. Just as you would never reach infinity, even if you spent your entire lifetime plus everyone else's lifetime counting. But one could comprehend infinity as a point using this railroad track analogy.

Now I find myself wondering why the discussion about arabesques made me think of projectile geometry and the railroad track analogy. Mathematics and ballet share this obsession with ideals. The ideal proof...the ideal line...the most beautiful equation...the most beautiful pose. Rigorous...precise...detail, detail, detail...

Chopin & Sylphs

Also, Happy 200th birthday, dear Chopin! In honor of this piano master, we went wild in Saturday's ballet class. Instead of the usual center work, we learned a gorgeous 19th century Romantic-style routine, and danced it to a Chopin Nocturne from La Syphilis ballet. Okay, okay, it's "Sylphide", not "Syphilis".

The 19th century romantic-style is characterized by a soft, wilted look, so throughout the routine, we danced as if we were sea coral, with arms rarely fully extended. When our instructor showed us the beginning pose, the one man in the room asked "What's the guy version of that pose?" It was funny-- especially when our instructor replied "I suppose we're not sylphs" in his sarcastic way--, but in all honesty, the guy is already dancing around in butt-hugging leggings, so what's he afraid of? Embrace your inner sylph, Men!

Iraqi Campaign Tactics

...and they took to the streets and lavished the populace with gifts of grains and peacocks and cakes of all manner...

“This is good, try it,” said Meluk Abdul Wahab, as he ate Mr. Hashemi’s cake. But Mr. Wahab was not exactly won over.

“I think I will vote for Hashemi,” he said with a smile. “But if someone else gives me something better, I will vote for him. Because after they win the elections, we will never see them or get anything from them. So I don’t care. I will vote for whoever gives me more.” 

--'Iraqis Awash in Gifts from Candidates', NY Times

I don't blame them. I love free food just as much as the next Iraqi. Free food, instant gratification...what more could a citizen ask for?