Decorations

Hmmm, I think, this will be interesting. She is a tall, handsome Italian woman with a beautifully precise and, above all, clean style of following, largely free from superfluous decorations. It is like strong, black coffee in a slender espresso cup: rich and heady. No sugar please. No milk. Definitely no cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles. But the man crossing the floor to dance this Di Sarli tanda, directing his beamy smile straight at her, is Wright. As they take their first steps together, her slender legs describe cool, smooth lines, her free foot calmly obeying the dictates of physics and biomechanics. But now I spot a few delicate taps and here, the tiny flick of a shiny, metallic Neotango shoe around her supporting ankle, the meandering detour of a rulo – and soon her free foot is caressing her own leg in a long sensuous stroke as she savours a parada. Wright is grinning: twinkly-eyed and puckish. His follower’s free leg is like a sleeping beauty which he has effortlessly kissed back into life. Very few women can resist the urge to decorate when they are in his embrace.

The next tanda is Laurenz, the perfect orchestra for Wright. I turn my gaze immediately to where he is perching at the bar and am delighted to see him put down his glass of ruby-coloured Rincón Famoso and offer me his cocked-headed cabeceo. For Wright, Laurenz is rich with changes of speed. He intersperses phrases of sensual slow motion movement with sudden, explosive bursts of velocity. As his follower, I have the option of simply waiting and responding to his sudden accelerations, but to do so would be to drag by just the teeniest fraction, to arrive just a millisecond late. Instead, I take my cues directly from the music, borrowing his ears, so that when the moment comes I can step with him, so we can arrive on the strong driving beats at the same instant: streamlined and aerodynamic. We are like two musicians in an orchestra: coordinating with each other, it’s true, but both keeping a watchful eye on the conductor’s baton.    

To say that Wright leaves many spaces for the follower to play would be an understatement. The dance is like a conversation. He makes a statement: leading me to stride forcefully through a giro or travel quickly around the floor in a double-time caminata. And then he poses a question – by leading me into a parada, say, or twirling me on the spot, making me the centre of a slow giro – and I feel him waiting for my answer. His pauses are pregnant ones. It would be churlish and impolite to say nothing. I feel him waiting, expectantly, listening out for my contribution. And my feet write their commentary on the text of the music: underlining a phrase here, highlighting another, scribbling a few words in the invitingly snowy margin: a dancer’s high-heeled midrash.

I find myself actively searching for ways to let him feel me — traspiés, tiny foot taps, little curly rulos and lápices, tiny rapid changes of weight on the spot, long sensual strokes of my foot against his leg, little games of tango footsie. I find myself wishing I had a wider vocabulary of tiny movements at my disposal and begin to think of ways to tie the decorations together, so they echo in miniature the coherent, progressive structure of the tango itself. Could I increase their size and flamboyance as the song progresses, in a kind of crescendo, I wonder, or build up to a climax and then allow it to fade again, as though interpreting hairpin dynamic markers in an imaginary score? Or perhaps this kind of rulo could be danced first in a straightforward, simple way and then gradually developed and elaborated upon, like a theme with variations? Whenever he leads me to a parada I feel like a soloist playing a cadenza. For a moment, the orchestra is silent, all eyes and ears are on me, and this is my moment to improvise and play.

All this is happening primarily below waist level. Our dance feels homophonic. The subtle adjustments of our close embrace resemble a progression of repeated chords above the melodic line played by our feet. Above, at torso level, soft cuddles. And below, in the legs and feet, precision artistry (or at least an attempt at it). At times, we are almost like two swans: gliding smoothly above the surface while, below the waterline, paddling vigorously.

Of course, these thoughts are only semi-conscious during the tanda itself. I cannot intellectualise in the moment of dancing. But I feel sharp, focused, alive: concentrating on the music, not merely lulled by it.

Yes, this dance is led and followed. It is Wright who transforms me into a baroque musician, delighting in my own flourishes and embellishments. He is the one who facilitates and encourages this highly decorated style. And yet, although he is my immediate superior in the chain of command, we both answer to a higher authority. The ghostly authority of eleven dead musicians.