La Nuit Blanche

When I meet people, probably the single most frequently asked question that I am obliged to answer, besides my name, my Manhattan stoop, or my ethnic background, is:

“What do you photograph?”

To which I answer, “Anything that is photographable.”

A ridiculous question… And honestly, that’s the best answer I can come up with.

The second most frequently asked question is:

“What or who influences your work?”

To which the answer is:

“Movies, poetry, music, dancing, conversations, rollercoasters, table tennis, the grandmother I never knew, my mother, my lover, painting, sculpture, architecture, the ocean, dead flowers dried up in wine bottles, spaghetti, perfume adverts from the 1920s, old stained mirrors, dusty Venetian masks, icecream, lunar eclipses, fights with a cab driver, cat piss on the street, dog poo on the sidewalk, ghost stories, that crushed pigeon on the tarmac, that buried goldfish in the backyard of a suburban house, rollerskating, costume jewelry, Korean moshi linen, sleeping nude on cool sheets during a hot summer night, my recurring dreams and nightmares, feathered fans, a peacock’s tail…………”

Basically, anything and everything that doesn’t have to do with pictures or photography. (Well, ok, maybe there are 11 pictures taken by other people — and not necessarily by artists — that have stopped my heart, and are a constant source of inspiration and awe.)

Anyway, there are artists for whom the only thing they are interested in is art… And the only kind of art they are interested in, is their own medium. That’s the only thing they look at… Pictures. And then the only thing they do is… Picture-taking. During the day, they hang out in… Photo galleries. The people they hang out with and consider friends are… Photographers. In their travels, they don’t meet people or talk to locals or write in a journal or laugh but… They photograph.

As for myself, that would drive me absolutely bonkers. Others tell me if I spent more time (obsessively) dedicated to my craft, I would produce more work. From personal experience, it has the adverse effect of me wanting to smash my camera into a zillion pieces.

As I am being more and more immersed in the tango community, I am realizing that there seems to be those for whom tango is the only thing in their lives, besides work. Besides “work” (as in the means to earn money for survival), there is the tango, and almost nothing else. After work, they… Tango. When they go shopping, they only buy… Tango friendly clothes. When they see friends, they are… Tango friends. When they meet, they talk about… Tango (for hours). When they save up for vacation, they… Go to tango festivals. Or Buenos Aires. When they get to Buenos Aires, they… Tango.

And when they come home from Tango, they… Write about tango. Hehe… Kidding, kidding! :-D

This is a strange addiction indeed. I have also fallen prey to it somewhat, the obsession manifesting itself in strange ways, such as, writing in my blog this minute, for instance, when I should be watching the fish frying on the pan, or cutting and sewing my normal clothes into dance-worthy creations, always leaving room in my bag for a pair of CIF and a pair of dance sneakers, organizing my social life around my favorite milongas and practicas, and finding that my only bathroom reading material are back issues of Reportango magazine…

Bueno.

But! I am careful to skip out on a regular basis. I skip out to have dinner with my brother. I skip out to go to the cinema, to read a book, to get drunk at jazz clubs, to interview the icecream man, to go to Six Flags. I skip out to march in the Halloween Parade, to take pictures at 1am on deserted city streets, to go to the market with my Lover, and cook, and have picnics on the bed. We both skip out to have lots of sex (together).

And I frequently listen to non-tango music. Chopin, Scriabin, Brahams, Satie, Coltrane, Monk, the Beattles, Joni Mitchell, Michael Jackson, Miss Kittin, The Moldy Peaches, Godspeed You Black Emperor, Tin Hat Trio… Remember them? And before I go to bed, to French talk radio in which the only music is the intro and outro to interviews.

(Well, ok, is Zitarrosa considered tango?)

These days, I’ve been looking at my calendar, in which there is written, in hot pink (I even have a separate color, just to mark tango things), “…milonga, practica, private, milonga, practica, private, milonga, practica, private…” And have been questioning myself: What am I doing?

Will I be able to forgo taking pictures, or breathing in chemicals in the darkroom, teaching highschool students how to use a camera, leafing through smelly old books at the flea market? Or ordering pizza and watching episodes of The Twilight Zone, or talking to my sister in Korea at midnight, getting drunk on St. Germain at a dinner party? Or going to see a burlesque show downtown, or attending a socialist demonstration on May Day… Or sitting in my room staring at the wall and doing nothing? Or having sex?

I am not practicing or thinking about tango while I am doing these things… But I know that when I step into a milonga, all these things will enrich my tango when I embrace a man on the dance floor. My life outside of tango makes each tango outing fresh, and almost new, and more precious to me than ever. I bring into the embrace, the joy and sadness and hilarity from the days I spent away from it.

These are the things that constantly remind me that the tango may be a miniature representation of Life, but it is not Life itself. And that I have no desire to wrap my life around it like a sour old grape leaf…

Ok, now to go get ready to dance.

Ciao….ciao.