Tango in the Desert | The year I learned how to walk.
6.3 Navigations ~ the gravity of loss & the gathering of awareness I learned from my dog, Bo.
This article is long, I know. It is best read, seen, and heard on Substack (app or in a web-browser) where the footnotes are conveniently hyper-linked and the video clips are viewable.
The most influential teacher I had in this dance was my dog, Bo.
I’ve been wanting to write about our last year together for quite a long time. I’ve been guiding Tango here in Albuquerque since January 2023, as my life’s pursuit. I had never expected my path to lead to being asked to teach dance. As this new year began, the right moment to write about him, and his sister, Zinn, finally realized. They came into my life in my young twenties when I truly needed some grounding. They bettered my life and ability to be present. I miss them. Every day I’m encouraged and heartened by their memory to move forward on better paths. They are no longer with me; yet, it is not loss that I feel. Rather, I treasure how both of these noble canines graced my life with gifts they left with me to carry on.
One of my favorites songs is a milonga about a man walking with his faithful dog… “Con mi perro”1 ←( click this # footnote to hear my favorite version by Rodolfo Biagi c/ Alberto Amor. Then click the number of the footnote, again, to return here to this place in the article if reading on the Substack app or web browser).
The orchestra in this version of “Con mi perro” reminds me how it felt when barreling through the mountains and streets with my 105 lb. pitbull-mastiff, Bo, many years ago. The word “milonga” carries two meanings in Tango: 1) a style of music played during a milonga, which also means 2) the social event where dancers gather to harmonize and celebrate life through dance. I am partial to the African (Ki-Kongo) root of this word meaning “line of dancers,” etymologically speaking. As the dance socially grew into what is Tango, the word milonga took on more the meaning of “party,” or social gathering… with lines of dancers.
Tango lyrics are rife with stories of loss and losing; yet, Tango itself is not serious. Rather it is full of emotion and feelings… sentimientos. We connect to the music with our life experience. It doesn’t matter if you understand the lyrics word for word. We understand vibrations of music and voices. The milongas in Buenos Aires are full of life, laughter and the social swirl. You feel in a milonga, not at a milonga. Now, not all Tango songs (temas) are heavy or sad. There are some laden with hope like “Lo que vieron mis ojos” (footnote #2)to see how I danced in 2019). There is a song about a man preparing his homestead for his love to arrive (“Nido Gaucho”). There’s one about a youth preparing for a night out, full of anticipation, confidence and ready with a plan to get the password (contraseña) to sneak into the social swirl of a milonga (“Bailarín de contraseña”) 3.
For me, “Con mi perro” (1946) captures what it was like walking with Bo, especially in his youth. Zinn was always more aware of the world and her surroundings. She took the time to observe the world around her. It took Bo and me a while to catch up with this more fulfilling way of walking through life.
[Video: first trip off leash. Zinn (part wolf) is the one contemplating and aware of what’s around her… and Bo (pitbull-mastiff) is focused on the stick. Michigan 2001]
I learned how to walk the last year of his life.
Overnight, our pace changed from hours of rambling long-hard miles through the mountains of Pennsylvania to a final year of slowness. A tumor had ruptured on Bo’s hindquarters in January of 2010. I didn’t have much money in those years, but I provided the best food and care I could for both Zinn and Bo. Dr. Gene Witiak and his veterinary staff patched him up. Dr. Witiak mentioned they had a “coupon” for Bo’s surgery. I never saw this coupon nor did they ever send me a bill that I recall. He said the whole staff agreed Bo should have it, this mysterious coupon. They were very kind. They saved his life.
“You’ll most likely have one year. You’ll need to walk with him at his pace, make it your pace. Make it count.” Dr. Witiak is a remarkable human. Animals love him, that’s all one really needs to know about a person, sometimes.
I was still trying to piece myself together from losing a deeply meaningful relationship the year previous with the person who politely tricked (trampita educada) me into my first Tango class. I had lost sight of her in my day-to-day life. I was worrying too much about the future and working for the future, digging myself out of debt incurred when a customer stiffed me on my biggest renovation job early in my years as a contractor. It took me many years to financially recuperate from it. I lost sight of the present. My partner was there for me, but I realized too late I was not always truly present for her during those years trying to get back in balance. It took me a long while to realize this and to own it. Being present is the whole point of life and also where this dance lives inside us. So, on the precipice of also losing my closest companion of 10 years, Bo… being present was all the more precious. I wanted to make each walk with him count.
In Argentina one is only considered a true dancer when they have la caminata (their/the walk). From 2005-2016, in the U.S., I don’t recall any class focusing on la caminata, nor the music for that matter. It was just class after class of flashy moves: ganchos (hooks), boleos(throw/whip), leg wraps, volcadas ( essentially “tipping over” leans off axis) — “Tourist moves” — I heard them called quite often said by Argentinians and people I studied this folkloric, social dance with down there for over 9 months between 2016-2022. I had lived in Argentina for a year at age 18, so the language and the culture was already relatable. These moves, in themselves, are a part of the dance’s possibility of expression but not as spectacle while social dancing, in my opinion. When we are social dancing there is quite often not enough space, let alone musicality, to perform these moves and people can get hurt when heels come off the floor. There are subtle ways to infuse these flashy moves into la caminata… and when I see two dancers express one of these moves to the music and in equilibrium it is indeed a gorgeous sight and worthy of recognition. However… but… yet… most people —stop—get into position—reposition themselves—then fire off the “step” (gancho, leg wrap, what have you)—then regroup—reposition—and often go right into the next flashy move. There’s no flow. I mean, to each their own. However, to me… nothing speaks artistry, prowess, style and character like two people walking to the music in a lovely, flowing embrace. I prefer to live in the music, embraced… creating moments with my partner. Simple things are so very pleasing.
It takes time to hone one’s walk, and we Northern Americans have had a reputation of being too impatient for this. Yet, I don’t believe this is true. I think we are ready and capable of spending time honing this essential and graceful element that is the dance. It’s more a matter of exploring its vast beauty with curiosity and dedication.
I grew so tired and disconnected from all those classes of “steps” during my early years. I quit Tango so many times. I felt ridiculous performing these fancy moves during classes. It created doubt that I “didn’t know enough” or “I don’t have enough steps.” We don’t need steps. We need connection. I had heard people mention la caminata as being the most important element in Tango, along with the connection and the music! Yet, no one was working on la caminita, though, that I recall. I quit Tango so many times. In 2010 I didn’t dance. But, in that year I learned how to walk with my dog, Bo, during our last year together.
My greatest teacher for the walk was Bo.
Bo was a 105 lb. (47.5 kilos) pitbull-mastiff who luckily the world made sure came home with me from a rural animal shelter outside of Des Moines, Iowa in November 2000. It was a comical ruse how the staff got me to adopt him. I’d been working on a theatre set in the early autumn days of Des Moines. A college student, apprenticing with me on the set, and I were talking about dogs. I said something like “I always wanted a larger breed dog, but my older brother got to choose from the shelter - (we ended up with Cleopatra, a basset hound with plenty of personality). But I don’t have the time for one.”
She stopped working and looked at me with the appropriate expression and said: “what the hell are you doing now that you can’t have a dog?” I had no answer. “Good point” I guess I said, and probably laughed. Probably took my hat off. I don’t rightly recall. That night I asked my housemates how they’d feel if I did spring one from the cages. They said sure. I visited a dozen shelters over the next couple of days, but nothing felt right. The search fell to the back burner. A few weeks passed and I was driving back through rural Iowa from a tiling job way out among the long rolling fields for grain and corn to the west of Des Moines. For some reason I turned up a random gravel road and I had no idea why at first. There at the end of this long drive, if I recall correctly it was a long drive, there was an animal shelter. I was 23 years old and strong. When I walked in, it seemed like they already had the dog in mind for me.“We have the perfect dog for you. Are you looking for a dog?” They brought me up to the cage of an emaciated pitbull snapping back at an equally salty black lab neighbor. They had named this pitbull Marmaduke. “What do you think?” “Well, he’s pretty aggressive… and also not a Great Dane.” “Oh really?” I instantly understood why they had listed him as a great dane instead of a pitbull. The breed was greatly misunderstood. He was big despite being 20 lbs underweight. There was mastiff in his bloodline. “He seems a bit much.” “Want to take him out?” “What about that one?” I pointed to the dog sitting in the cage next to Marmaduke. It was a wolf-shepard sitting stoically, just calmly looking at me. This dog nodded at me. “I’d like to meet that one.” “Oh, no one has ever asked about Tipper.” “Tipper?” “Yes.” The woman opened the cage and lithely Tipper strided out, sat down and offered me her paw. “I’ll take her.” “Oh! I’ve never seen her do that before.” “I’ll take her.” “You have to go outside and spend time first.” “Sure, but we can start the paperwork.” I looked at her and said, “how bout we change your name?”
“What name would you like on the paperwork?” It took me a moment to arrive at her new name. She seemed so wise and intuitive, so calm and aware of everything around her. I was reading Howard Zinn at the time. “Zinn.” “Zen?” “Z-i-doube-n. I think that suits her.” “I think it does, too. Want to take her brother, too?” “Her brother?” “Yes.” She pointed to Marmaduke who was still salty at his neighbor. “Um, no that’s ok.” “At least take him out, too. Just in case. We can give you two dogs for the price of one.” “Is that normal?” “You look capable.” “No that’s ok. He seems aggressive. Just the one.” “He is a sweetheart. At least take him out next.” “Sure.”
Zinn was the coolest dog I had ever met. We hit it off fast and steadfast. I’d never known that type of bond straight off. When I took Marmaduke out he was interested in everything but me, which is fine. He was calmer outside, away from the black lab in the pen next to him. It was nothing like hanging out with Zinn, though. She was a whole other bonding experience. Marmaduke and I spent a while outdoors and I watched him explore his freedom for the whole time allotted. When we got back inside, the staff asked if I wanted Marmaduke (Bo), too. I said “no, thank you,” while watching him snap at his neighbor. In his defence he was not the instigator. I think he just had enough of whatever bs that other dog was spraying. Zinn was in her cage just looking at me as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She probably knew she already had my heart. They let her out and she greeted me first and then she put her nose to Bo’s cage until he calmed down. Then she followed me into the lobby where the paperwork was officially filled out. They had called my housemates and references while I had been out with both dogs. All had checked out.
“Do you fix drywall?” “I do, I can.” “Would you take a look at a repair we need done? We can hold Marmaduke for you. We can pay you and you can adopt him at no charge, too.” “I’ll fix the drywall for free, really no worries. But I just want the one dog.” “Can you come next week? We’ll hold Marmaduke for you.” “Uh. Sure. Next week is great.” “Bring Zinn with you. They can play while you work.” “Will do.”
The first week was a bit tough. Zinn had abandonment issues. She struggled with being alone. I couldn’t always take her on a job. Otherwise she was great, everybody loved her. It was nigh impossible to slip out a door and close it without her pretty much re-materializing behind me on the other side of the door. I remember trying to talk calmly to her while slipping myself through a mostly closed door… and before I could shut it she would be behind me on the other side. Lightning fast and nimble. She already had my heartstrings. I knew she needed her brother.
The day came and the two of us drove back out west, and a wee bit northerly, to the rural animal shelter. The staff already had the ruse in effect, unbeknownst to me. I walked in and there was Bo/Marmaduke already with them in the lobby. The two dogs saw each other and leapt into the air – embraced each other – fell to the ground still embraced — and began rolling and kissing each other, whining with joy, tails a’waggin’ every which way. The staff started crying at the sight. The whole dang room was crying. “Right. I’ll take both dogs.” It was a touching moment, I was not immune.
The drywall repair room had a window view of the outside run where Bo and Zinn were playing. It was pretty awesome to see them together. I went out and joined them between drying set coats of drywall mud. He was much more interested in me this time. She was so happy. The staff thought Bo was being bred as a fighter and Zinn a baiter, perhaps, before they came to the shelter. No doubt she orchestrated the great escape from whatever place they had been previously. She had fashioned a little hut in the tall grass where they were later found by one of the women who worked in the shelter. She said it was impressive this little hut where Zinn stood guard and where Bo had been hiding.
I finished the job and said “Ok, let’s pack them up.” “Oh, you can’t take him today. He still needs a shot.” “What do you mean I can’t take him today? How will I explain this to Zinn?” “Oh. Oh!” “Can I leave here her with him overnight?” “No, this is against policy.” “How am I going to explain this to her? I could have easily come tomorrow and done the job.” There was nothing that could be done. I had to drag Zinn back into the work van. It was awful. A few miles out she deflated and began to cry. It was heart-wrenching. She wouldn’t eat or drink. I had to carry her limp body into the house. She cried all night. I tried to assure her. She cried Man Ray tears.4
It wasn’t until we were a mile out from the shelter that she re-animated. It had been nearly 24 hours of heartbreak. By the time we pulled up to the animal shelter she was fully herself. She never let Bo out of her sight after that day.
It took a year to smooth the aggression out of Bo toward other dogs. He soon became the loveable lunk he was by nature with a fan club anywhere he would go. Bo got his name from the neighborhood kids in Des Moines as they’d hang on him and go for a drag-along. Bo was strong, like a bull… but more like Ferdinand the Bull5. The kids would skip around him sing-songing “Ba-bo-bo-Ba-bobobo… Bobo!” The name suited him, he liked it. So it became his.
Zinn was with us all too briefly. She died in my arms on election day of 2005 while playing outside with her brother where a weeping cherry tree now thrives in Pennsylvania. I believe she held on until knowing both Bo and I would be alright in this world. Dr. Witiak said as much, too. He thought she knew she was sick for quite a while. She was playing full speed with her brother outside. I put down my hammer and climbed off the roof of my friend’s house to take a break with them. I was watching them having a blast tearing around each other and wrestling. She stopped and looked over at me with a big wolfish smile. Then she collapsed as if a switch tripped the light out of her. My friend heard my yell and hopped off the roof, grabbed Bo and threw open his little van. I was trying to give Zinn CPR in the back. Fred was driving over 100mph down our country roads to the veterinary. We blew past a cop and the copper just watched us pass. Bo never once looked behind him. He stared ahead from the passenger seat out the dash window. Bo knew she was already gone. I still kicked in the door. I felt bad about that. The staff were so kind to play along. She was dead. Dr. Witiak still called everyone to order and they brought her into the emergency room with me. They performed the motions of resuscitating Zinn. I heard one of the junior techs mumble a confused statement “... but she’s already de(ad)...” which got cut short by one harshly hushed word from Dr. Witiak and they kept the motions going until he stopped. Dr. Witiak took off his mask and walked up to the side of me. He put his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t stand in front of me, he stood to the side of me which was really kind of him. “She’s gone. You did everything you could. We did everything we could.” He patted my shoulder and softly stepped out of the room leaving me with a very kind tech assistant as I shattered. I said goodbye to Zinn. I didn’t know I could take her home and bury her myself. A week later they gave me the ashes and for years I couldn’t understand what to do with them. That night the fellas took me and Bo out to our local and regular bar. The juke box played our songs and the bartender, who rarely spoke to anyone, said he’d miss her. He gave Bo an extra treat he’d brought in just for them. Bo and Zinn were the only two dogs allowed in that bar in those days. I had heard this ex-cop barkeep say once to some fella bringing in his dog: “What the hell’re’ya doin’… no dogs.” This fella was confounded because he could see us down the long skinny room at our regular table. “What about those dogs?” “Those aren’t dogs, that’s Bo and Zinn.”
Zinn had picked me. We met at a time in my life I needed grounding. I was told I was the first person she ever engaged with. Maybe it was true for both of us. Bo became a huge part of my life thanks to her. I learned so much from her in our short time together.
Bo and I would continue on many adventures together.
In January of 2010 Bo came home after his surgery and never ran again. His gait of juggernaut muscle was then a slow amble that allowed time to relish moments as they came into view (or smell). We walked. We walked together for that last year, every day, twice a day. It was fascinating to witness him begin to slowly savor moments for the first time in his life of 10 years. This made the transition, and the sense of ticking time, soften.
I also learned how to walk that year, how to feel and let everything filter through each present moment. Each step would bring it closer, the end, for my best friend. And yet he showed me how this would not matter for here is a rose, and here is a stick, and here is the wind through the catalpa leaves ~ listen ~ and there behind us, slowly turn round, smell a dandelion visited by a bee.
The walk, la caminata, is the conversation that meanders in equilibrium, flowing in the adaptable moments without future and only a past of nostalgic feeling. In Tango, la caminata is two people harmonizing movements between themselves and with all other partners in la ronda (the round, the line of dance). We remain absolutely present with the music while adapting to the social movements of everyone around us… space, time, equilibrium… all the while remaining in motion. Sometimes imperceptible to the eye but deeply felt in the embrace, like the river reed feels still waters.
With Bo I learned I could not practice what I thought was a “Tango Walk.” There actually is no “Tango Walk” in my opinion. It’s not something we create. It is an expression of who we are and how we feel the music and the moment. There is no reason to contrive it when we can just be it. During our first nine years (2000-2009), Bo and I always moved too fast. We often had our heads down. We loved the exercise and the getting to places, but perhaps we missed too much of the journey. Zinn was always more about the journey. She knew things. The year of 2010 brought on a slowness that gave Bo this awareness which he then passed on to me.
The first wintry months of that year, up through Spring, I kept disturbing his peaceful amble the moment I tried to “Tango Walk.” We had to walk so slowly so I thought why no practice “the Tango walk.” I soon grew tired of saying “sorry” to Bo every time he would have to stop, look at me and inquire if I was ok. I mean I was walking strangely, manufacturing this so-called “Tango Walk.” I was perplexing his ability to be lost in the moment, living in the present which he was sharing with me… but there I was contriving an activity. He really did stop and look at me with a worried expression… and he would hold the look for longer than usual. He was too old for “slow man” games. Time was waning. We had never had this dynamic between us apart from horsing around with the slow-man theory.6 He was concerned.
Dogs love and fear slow-man like little kids love being fun scared. But the time for those games had ended. I think he just wanted me to be myself. I wasn’t in a great place those days. I was stuck in the past and hoping the future would be better. I needed to change before it was too late.
In the months that followed, as Spring thawed further into Summer, I quit trying to contrive the walk on our daily ambles. Instead, I put every effort into staying in the pocket of his moment. I started to focus on how my body and movements could more naturally arrive (gather) in smooth, dexterous equilibrium from moment to the next. In a relaxed state it was much easier to flow my movements in harmony with his. I focused more on the second half of each step, when we bring our legs (where they rejoin) back together while walking. In Buenos Aires in 2016 I learned this is called “el roce / rozar” — to sweep our equilibriums through center by bringing our thighs back together before moving onwards – but not our feet!
I worked on allowing my heels to absorb the arriving movements like the wave rolls toward the shore, without tension anywhere. The leg that was me, the one connected to the ground, became more the leg that would move my entire being from one place to the next in fluid equilibrium. I found that my heel was then naturally “landing” the free leg, absorbing my weight as the sole of the foot rolled into grounded equilibrium. The feeling reminded me of a calm ocean wave coming up through the sandy shore. My weight – Gravity – began to settle nicely, sure footedly, as balance was sent as this wave from one ball of the foot to the other. Both feet always available like water through sand, both ready and willing receive my active weight. I was able to shed tension.
Water is extremely difficult to compress. So, too, our bodies shouldn’t either… or crumple. We need our full volume – our full volume of water – our full presence in each moment in order to be fluid. I spent that year exploring how to move like water, like mercury, liquid… the lack of tension combined with active connection through the leg that is the conduit through the ground was key. For tango dancers, I recommend taking note that both knees are equally soft and only the actively grounding leg has the knee that is more actively flexing. The free leg should never be bent more than the actively grounding leg. The traveling leg is free — inactive — flowing in the wake of the equilibrium. If it is resting, not bent more than the grounding leg, then this a sign that it is indeed free. If the free leg, the one not supporting us, is bent in front of the standing leg you are no longer in the present, nor are you able to move freely or swiftly. It is impossible to exchange weight to the music or the moment. I call this “futuring.” The active grounding leg is the one with the muscles around our knee absorbing our weight and keeping us in a ready state to move - to send our bodies to the next place. Also, if the free leg is being held off the floor or drawing its own movements with the foot… this is also “futuring” and not being present in the moment. The free leg must be free… like a weight on a string. 60/40 we call it at the studio. Boxers, kickboxers, athletes all use this concept and it is proven to be the most ideal for swiftness, balance and power. The concept that Tango dancers should be on one leg, in my opinion, is unfounded, taxing to the body and hinders the ability to be present and relaxed in the moment.
Walking with Bo that last year I had to be ready for slow motion changes of direction, to be mindful so as not to disturb his flow. The only way to gain this was to be relaxed, to relinquish, to surrender into each moment with him. Soles sinking, yawning, allowing everything to gather, relish, root and quietly observe with my friend what he was aware of in any given moment. The harmonizing of pace and the moment, without thought, became an artful exploration of how to experience more meaningful time with him. For him it was savoring the smells all around. He was living a year of scents. This allowed me to arrive into each moment instead of going somewhere in the future. In classes I call this the gathering… gathering movement into a “centered now”… coming back to center, gathering our beings into the present and just being… being available, relaxed and ready for nothing or anything. The walks with Bo taught me this art of arrival simultaneous with the present. I would leave the flip phone at home. Clocks were unthinkable.
Bo was showing me how to walk with feeling…
I think of him so very often, on walks whether it be down the grocery aisles, in the mountains of New Mexico, meandering through museums, perusing the stacks of stories in used book shops, and the walkabouts alone or with friends when it’s best to let thoughts drift and the moment just be. I try never to bring a watch and also turn off my phone completely so there is no time. La Caminata can be practiced anywhere. It is us, not a thing for the tango stage. It is about learning how we move, who we are traveling in motion, and why it feels so good to share with others. Knowing our own walk grounds us, centers us and allows us to remain ourselves in motion. Bo was my best teacher, and I take that year with me everywhere I go.
As winter returned with a brutally cold November and December, Bo wore a puffy navy blue down vest with silver snaps and brown suede shoulder patches. My father had made this vest some 30 years previous for my mother. I have only one photo of Bo in the puffy blue vest, trapped in an old flip phone I still keep with me in hopes one day it can be retrieved. Yet, I see him so clearly in the memories of our last year of walks. The vest kept him warm. It embraced him. He was dashingly handsome in that puffy navy blue goose down vest with suede shoulder patches. Everyone in town told him so. He would politely accept, “thank you much,” and we’d walk on.
On the 22nd of December, 2010, Bo got low.
The frozen ground was opened. We lit a fire and warmed the December night while his body lay on top of his favorite blanket of brown wild horses in the small wooden library room outside of which where Zinn had passed. Three close friends, who loved him too, and I laid him low along with Zinn’s ashes. We drank to their lives and exchanged our favorite Bo stories, there are many, and the laughter shielded the cold further than the fire and our faces never froze that evening. There is now a thriving weeping cherry tree that blooms as winter ends on that very spot, one of their favorite spots to sit and summer watch the lightning bug theater amid the towering catalpas down the sloping hill alongside the creek.
Six years later, after falling off of a building7 and surviving with only a scratch, I arrived in Buenos Aires to re-learn Tango from the beginning. La guardia vieja, “the old guardsaw that I could walk. El nene Masci, El Chino Perico and Juan Lencina8 all asked my main teacher, Monica Paz: “how does this tourist know how to walk?” It lead to them teaching me their dance, not the tourist moves, and be invited out with them to milongas. I am still seeking and honing my caminata. I do not have the walk, yet. I am in no rush. I do walk with feeling. La caminata, el abrazo y la música are the dance… the walk, the embrace and the music. I had put in the time and foundational work for my own personal journey. I was on my own road seeking my own caminata, and they could see it and feel it and it gained their respect to teach me how they actually dance. They didn’t sell me steps. The doors opened to more authentic experiences learning with and from them because I had put in the time and effort to find the walk. Then they opened the view wider of how to walk. The real doors to social Tango opened up and I finally began to love the art of this social dance: Argentine Tango.
It is all about walking with feeling.
~~~//*\~~~
Thank you for reading this article!
♥️ Please, please, please hit the like button if you enjoyed this piece. It really helps. It helps others find this project and these articles on Substack.
Special Thank you to Jutta Lehmer and also my Aunt Liz and cousins, Ted and Amanda, for all of your support, feedback, perspective and guidance with the written word. To my parents for their read throughs. To Batt Johnson for the expertise and generosity in exploring possible narration (one day), guiding me to understand the spoken word beyond the written. To my friends who read early versions of this story and encouraged me to keep going: Risa, Summre, Susan L., Jennie H. and “Cake.” And to the dog shelter in rural central Iowa I stumbled upon and their brilliant ruse to get me to bring Bo home with me, too, when I only thought I needed one dog in my life. I did need two. To all my Des Moines family, Maine family, Liverpool family, European family, Argentine family, Northern Americas family and the community I love here in Albuquerque!
“Con mi perro” ~ Rodolfo Biagi c/ Alberto Amor - link to have a listen:
“Lo que vieron mis ojos” (1933) Orquesta: Francisco Lomuto. Cantores: Mercedes Simone y Fernando Diaz
by Orquesta Francisco Lomuto con cantores Mercedes Simone y Fernando Díaz (1933). This was an unchoreographed demonstration back in 2019 with my friend, Elly Fernandez. The stage was ridiculously slippery we had to borrow that teeny tiny rug from under a drummer’s kit to dance on. Keep an eye out for Elly as she tours and I highly recommend seeking her out for classes! This vals (Argentinian waltz) we are dancing to was in encore… and also one of my favorite songs (temas). I will only do a public demonstration if there is no rehearsal nor choreography. It’s more fun that way.
Links to these 3 songs: “Lo que vieron mis ojos” can be heard in the video link above.
“Nido Gaucho” (1942) Orquesta: Carlos di Sarli. Cantor: Alberto Podestá - YouTube Link
“Bailarín de contraseña” (1945) Orquesta: Ángel D'agostino. Cantor: Ángel Vargas - YouTube Link
“The Story of Ferdinand” by Munro Leaf - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_of_Ferdinand
“Slow Man” - A theory I used to love to horse around with Bo & Zinn. The dogs I’ve loved meeting in this world all seem to love and “fear” — SLOW MAN. Basically all I do is move in slow motion while playing with them… hands up like I’m gonna “get them.” They go nuts and start motoring around trying to figure out what's going on and why all of a sudden I’m moving in total slow motion. It’s good fun. Give it a crack. They’ll love it… well, the cool dogs will.
Tango in the Desert | Honing Intuition - "I've been to the zoo..."
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La Guardia Vieja is a term of endearment for those who experienced the Golden Era of tango in the 40s. Juan Lencina was a phenomenal teacher and influence for me, and a great friend. He got a kick out of the fact I could walk, but added “Hay que liberarse la cadera, pibe! (You gotta liberate your hips, kid.” I had been taught previously that the embrace was a frame… which locked my hips up. Juan Lencina chucked all that rubbish on day one and I can’t thank him enough for it. He passed away a month before my second trip (2017). El Nene Masci was a cheeky and impatient teacher, impatient is if he were an older brother tasked to teaching some tricks to a younger sibling. I had to really know Tango systems, movements and navigations for he would only show a movement twice and if I didn’t “get it” well enough on the 2nd try he would move onto something completely different. I loved the challenge of having to know movement and alignment and extrapolate it in real-time. Monica Paz was a wonderful teacher who facilitated these lessons with the great milongueros and later she would guide me further into understanding how *the feeling* was to be transcended. El Nene started off the first class with some bullshit *tourist move* called “the Americana” of all things. It was deflating until Monica said to him: “con respeto, Nene. Este pibe sabe caminar. Fijate. (With respect, Nene. This kid knows how to walk. Check it out).” He was skeptical until he saw me walk with Monica. “Cómo este turista sabe caminar, pero cómo?” “Sí! No?” Then the real lesson(s) began with El Nene. We went straight to signature movement possibilities of his personal expression of the music . El Chino Perico came to the studio on afternoon to do just a one-hour lesson at $200! That’s a lot of cabbage, but he was 80 years old and considered “el último milonguero” (the ultimate / the last milonguero). He also started out with a tourist move until Monica says “con respeto, Chino, pero fijate que este pibe sabe caminar.” “¿Cómo este turista sabe caminar?” After witnessing me at least have a foundation of the walk he says “Pero… ¿Cómo sabe este turista caminar!?” “Síííí, no?” He then went on to teach me for almost 3 hours, with enthusiasm, moves he loved and even set up an obstacle course that he and his mates used to do as youth to practice. It was intense and rich. Then he invited us out, me, Monica, Barbie, with him to find a milonga to go to together. In NYC, Carlos Horacio Funes befriended me at The Ukranian after acknowledging with a hand gesture approving of my walking with the music (and my partner). He invited me to sit with him during the milonga. I always loved seeing him whenever I could make it to Milonga Ensueño back when Gayle and Tioma ran it on Monday nights in the Lower East Side (NYC). The walk will open up doors around the world in this dance!
I especially like … “ La Caminata can be practiced anywhere. It is us, not a thing for the tango stage. It is about learning how we move, who we are traveling in motion, and why it feels so good to share with others. Knowing our own walk grounds us, centers us and allows us to remain ourselves in motion.” … and “motion” here can include any mode of becoming. Thank you!
thank you for sharing. pets, and loss, and the loss of our pets, can all be such important teachers. they have been for me as well.