I give you this little story so you will have an idea how I got where I am. Maybe this will show you that I might know what I'm talking about, or maybe it won't. If you want to know more about me, please see the "Musings & Mutterings" pages. Better yet, correspond with me.
I began dancing when I was in high school. My entire family took up international folk dancing and we did it avidly. Every dance had a specific choreography and usually a specific piece of music. Most folk dancers know hundreds of dances by heart, and the music helps them remember the steps. Folk dancing doesn't have much improvising. After a year my family and I joined a performing group and I remained active with it for another six or seven years.
Our group was invited frequently to perform at ethnic events, such as Polish polka parties, Serbian picnics and Greek festivals. In my naïve arrogance I was secretly disdainful of the old people who only knew two or three dances of their own culture. I thought I would show them how to dance. In my defense, I did wonder how the old grandmothers could possibly be so happy doing the same few dances repeatedly, and poorly, all afternoon or evening. Their entire repertoire often consisted of only one or two quick dances, and a slow one.
I knew many styles of dance; heavy dances of Bulgaria, light dances of Serbia, exuberant dances of Turkey, refined dances of England, strict dances of Scotland, loose dances of Germany. I could change styles as quickly as I could change costumes, and it was all equally superficial.
Initially I was thrilled to be on stage, showing off and receiving the applause of audiences. But I grew disenchanted with it as I realized that it was fairly easy to impress most audiences. They liked the dances that showed well, the easy ones. I was beginning to enjoy the more introverted dances, the ones filled with subtlety, that didn't look like anything on a stage. I realized the better my dancing was, the less the audience appreciated it.
We wanted to be as "ethnic" as possible in our dancing, but truly ethnic dances were boring performance pieces. We went to see performances of various national folk ballets, but the better their show was, the less we saw of real ethnic dancing. Their choreographies became an in-joke amongst our group. I was beginning to have more regard for the ethnic parties.
My preference began to lean toward easy and simple dances. I found more satisfaction in dancing in close harmony with my partner, or even other dancers in a line. I was delighted to dance a single village dance for half an hour, going in circles around a live band. I learned the pleasure of plain and simple, mindless, flowing movement with other people. It was a new awareness for me. I finally understood the old grandmothers. I even took up contra dancing. Still, I was dancing the way someone else told me to dance. I could do hundreds of dances in a dozen different styles, but none of the dances or styles were my own. I could "do" dances, but I couldn't "dance". All my initial training dictated that I dance to an external standard, whether it was an audience, a nationality, or a choreography.
In the ensuing years I quit performing and took up swing, waltz, vintage, even contac-improv. I also taught some of these forms. One of the things I liked best about these dances was the absence of set choreographies. I learned to create my own dance rather than dance what someone else prescribed. I learned to dance in my right brain rather than my left brain. I learned to dance my own expression rather than someone else's. I was learning to find fulfillment in the process of dancing rather than in the result of achieving a goal. I wish someone had suggested to me sooner that the greater pleasure of dance was internal rather than external. Maybe it wouldn't have taken me eight or ten years to figure it out. Or, maybe it would.
My first Tango class was with Nora and Raul Dinzelbacher, at the Vintage Dance Week in Cincinnati, in 1991. Once I discovered Argentine Tango, I was hooked. It was a rich and expressive dance. Individuality and creativity were encouraged. I returned to Atlanta and looked for a teacher, or other students, and found none. The next year I attended Nora's classes again in Cincinnati, and again returned to Atlanta to try to find a teacher, unsuccessfully.
In 1993 I attended the Stanford Tango Week. When I arrived there I thought I knew six or seven steps. When I left Stanford I realized I only knew two or three, if that. It was a very humbling experience. That September, since I could find no one else to do it, I began teaching my own class. They say, "One teaches that which one needs to learn". I told my students that I was only a week ahead of them, but I would do my best to share what I knew.
Since then I have done my best. I've taken classes with many different teachers in this country and in Buenos Aires. (After my first trip to BA, I thought the light at the end of the tunnel was bigger, but farther away.) I've studied video tapes, dance notes, generic dance movement, posture, stretching techniques, my own teaching techniques, and other teachers' teaching methods. When the going got difficult, for both me and other students, I studied studying, mentoring, aging, and even the mythological journey. I continue to study these things. That's why I'm doing this web site.
As some of my students began to know more about Tango, I began to think about training them to be teachers also. I didn't want to be the only source for Tango in Atlanta, and I wanted other people to help build the community. Also, I thought that by becoming teachers, they would become better dancers too. I typed out the "Teaching Concepts", gave them to the advanced couples, and offered them opportunities to teach my classes. Some of the teaching concepts came from my prior experience teaching dance.
I'm interested in sharing ideas about learning and teaching Tango. These notes contain my thoughts.
email: Please send me your comments or questions.