The importance of individuality

One criticism I recently heard about tango festivals is that it creates clones of the teachers. I appreciate the value of festivals, especially ones that bring great teachers. But great teachers teach more that proper dancing technique. They teach the mindset one must have. They teach the culture of the milonga. They teach the attitude of dancing. Etiquette. All the intangibles that only those who have danced since their childhood or even since their teenage years can understand and transmit it around the world.

Yet I also can see that there is some truth to the criticism, although it's more of a side effect than the desired effect, and it does not happen to everyone. But some students idolize their teachers to the point that they imitate their every single aspect, down to their mannerisms, their clothing accessories, and of course the way they dance, down to the way they wrap their fingers around their partner's hand. This is all good if the teachers are great. But the way I see it, it is not the best way to learn, because no matter how hard you try, no matter how good you get, the best you can be is an imitation of your teacher. And indeed, nobody can dance exactly like anybody else. Imitating everything about somebody is silly. Even if somebody dances exactly like Javier Rodriguez, they'll always be a shadow of him, because Javier Rodriguez is true to himself, he puts who he is into his dancing. And this goes for any other dancer too... I only use Javier Rodriguez as an example not only because I admire him but because there are many imitators of him in this continent. Emulating the superficial aspects of somebody's dance will not give any depth to the dance. It is nothing more than the shell of the original. The copies have not lived the same life as the original. They do not have the same values nor the same attitude towards life. And as such, all they can copy is the surface. There is no depth.

On the other side of the argument, there are dancers with plenty of individuality. They dance like nobody else. Yet they are awful. And what they dance, I don't want to call it tango, because it is a grave insult to everything I love.

Perhaps the most difficult thing in tango is finding one's individuality without falling into the trap of dancing something awful. But it is absolutely essential. I asked Gabriel Misse in a class how to develop one's individuality, and he told me that it was only through technique that this could be achieved. Indeed, I think perhaps the best way to find one's individuality is to perfect proper tango technique, and by that I don't mean the exact details of how famous tango teachers place their hand this way or the other. I mean the most basic things, like walking, embracing, and leading technique. With the right technique and the right mindset, one can put their feelings and emotions into the individuality of their dance, and perhaps this will show on the superficial details, but it will have depth.

Puente Alsina (1926)

Music and Lyrics: Benjamín Tagle Lara

¿Dónde está mi barrio, mi cuna querida?
¿adónde la cueva, refugio de ayer?
Borró el asfaltado de una manotada,
la vieja barriada que me vio crecer...

En la sospechosa quietud del suburbio,
la noche de un turbio drama pasional
y yo, desde entonces, el hijo de todos,
rodé por el lodo de aquel arrabal.

Puente Alsina, que ayer fuera mi regazo,
de un zarpazo la avenida te alcanzó...
Viejo puente, compañero y confidente,
sos la marca que, en la frente,
el progreso te ha dejado
al suburbio rebelado
hasta ayer te defendió.

Yo no he conocido caricias de madre...
Tuve un solo padre que fuera el rigor
y llevo en mis venas, de sangre maleva,
gritando una gleba con crudo rencor.

¿Por que me lo llevan, mi barrio, mi todo?
yo, el hijo del lodo, lo vengo a buscar...
Mi barrio es mi madre que ya no responde...
¡Que digan adónde la van a enterrar!

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Translation

Where is my neighborhood, my beloved cradle?
Where is the cave, yesteryear's refuge?
The asphalt erased with a slap
the neighborhood that saw me grow.

In the suspicious quietude of the suburb,
the night of a murky drama of passion,
and I, from then on the son of everyone,
rolled by the mud of that arrabal.

Puente Alsina, yesteryear's lap,
all of a sudden the avenue reached you.
Old Puente, fellow and confidant,
you're the mark on the forehead
left by the progress;
the rebelling suburb
defended you in the past.

I have not known my mother's caresses...
I only had one father who was the rigor,
and in my veins flows the malevo blood
screaming a glebe with crude grudge.

Why are they taking her away, my neighborhood, my everything?
I, son of the mud, have come to find her.
My neighborhood is my mother and she no longer responds...
They better tell me where they will bury her!