La Nuit Blanche

A short film made with photographs.

An old beloved friend of mine is a filmmaker who hates 35mm cameras.  He likes making movies, but still photography suffocates him, especially its static quality of picture-taking.

And being an oldskool B-Boy who DJs, pop and locks, beatboxes, and travels on skateboard, carrying around a camera is not an option.

So, he occasionally takes photos with his craptastic cell phone when the mood strikes him, and posts them up on the web.

He’s brilliant.

And I hate him.

:-D

I can just imagine him at the forefront of a new movement reminiscent of the Polaroid Art Photo from the 70s. A slap in the face to Canon, and the digital… “revolution”.

Friend of a Friend:  Nuit, can I take some pictures with your camera?

Nuit:  No.

FoaF:  Why not?

Nuit: I don’t usually let people touch my camera. Also, I’m trying to take some pictures right now.

FoaF: What about when you’re dancing?

Nuit:  Sorry, but it’s not a toy. No.

FoaF:  Sheesh, I only wanted to play with it for a few seconds….

It later turned out that yes, the FoaF had actually took it out of my bag and fiddled with it while I went off to dance.

When I came home, I found there were greasy medialuna smudges on the lens (which had got onto all of my pictures), and I realized why my memory card had maxed out prematurely in discordance with the shot list in my head (there were horrible photos of the FoaF’s friends smiling into the camera, beer bottles swaying, tongues sticking out).

Look, if you want to play with a camera for a few seconds, there are dozens of camera stores in every major city that have model displays that you are free to touch and tamper with to your heart’s desire.  You may not be able to take it into a cool venue such as Villa Malcom at 1 in the morning, but that’s life.

Some perspective, please:

1.  A professional digital SLR may seem like a toy to you, since everyone and their grandmother has one.

2.  However, it ceases to be a toy when you actually come to own one yourself, when you had squeezed the last remaining cents out of your bank account to procure one, when you know the value of the lens attached to it, when you know the mirror lock-up is sticky and is in need of replacement, and you are the only one who knows how to not get it stuck in the first place.

3.  It also ceases to be a toy when your livelihood depends on it.

4.  Unless you are also a photographer, a lover, has the same birthday, or is someone related by blood, asking to “play with” a photographer’s camera is like asking to touch her vagina. Imagine that you are a banker, and someone asks to see your bank account. Imagine you are a swimmer, and someone asks to put a plastic wrap around your head and hold your breath. Imagine you are a pianist, and someone asks to drop an elephant onto your piano keys, so they can “test it out”. See what I mean?

5.  If anything goes wrong, such as a broken lens, or an erased memory card, you have just done something to the equivalent of cracking my skull open, and poisoning my spirit.

Which is almost as bad as waking up in the morning and realising you are no longer in Buenos Aires.

Hello, my lovelies.

I’m back.

…I had a real camera with me that night.

Instead, I only had my craptastic cell phone on me, so I had to make do.

It would have been a nice one, though, don’t you think?

It’s interesting to see how Argentine milongueros adjust to the cultural difference in milongas outside of Buenos Aires. I’ve always wondered if they found the absence of cabeceo uncomfortable, or weird, or annoying, or brutish, or…

In any case, Tete had no qualms about walking straight up to my friend (a lovely statuesque New Yorker tanguera), tapping her on the shoulder, and wisking her away from under our noses. Another friend and I, who were standing and speaking with her on the other side of the room, gave a little gasp when we realized he had walked over.

I wish you could have seen her smile as she danced. I think you can see her joy embedded in the tiny pixels of this crappy cell-phone picture.

[Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, a disclaimer is in order (my first on this blog): the main character involved has been disguised by the imaginary name of X, no pronouns will be used to refer to this person's gender, and I will not answer any questions asked me, here in the blogosphere, or in my real life (hello, Friends!), as to this person's identity.]

It is a touchy subject… But I feel I must address it.

Yes, it’s true. There is malice in our dear Tangoland.

There are many instances of back-stabbing, name-calling, betrayal, ignorance, trickery, knife-thrusting, grumpy grump, stubborness, lying, and overall general drama in our beloved realm. And all this has been foreseeable, though regrettable, and in perfect accordance with the natural Order of the Universe. Afterall, our Tangoland is a part of the Real World, too.

But it hurts very much when a friend has gone over to the Dark Side, and this friend doesn’t even realize it.

I have such a friend, or, someone who used to be a friend, named X, who in the beginning of our story, seemed to be a vastly different person from the one revealed to me over time.

X has become a tiresome person. There are two things that make X tiresome… First, a persistent prejudice against certain members of our community, and second, the ignorance of racism. In the first offense, X is only harming X. And in the second offense, X is harming others.

This person X is quick to put certain members of the community into little categories all made up in X’s mind, and labelling one particular category with snide, unflattering appellations such as “The Group”, and “The Stuck-Ups”.

It is hurtful, since these kind, sweet people are fast becoming my friends.

These are the people who danced with me when no one else would. These are the people who watched me spin myself into a cocoon, and are continually delighting in my budding (albeit wrinkly) wings. These are the people who encourage me to continue, and take care of me when I am sitting alone at milongas or festivals. And who protect me from unwelcome advances. These are people who will dance with beginners and encourage them to keep coming back. And X refers to these people as “The Stuck-Ups”. Which is simply not the case, in my experience. The injustice of it makes me angry, especially when said to my face.

Don’t get me wrong — I, myself, have been terrorized by tan-egos and tan-egoistas, and horrible tangorillas, and individuals who are just so incredibly, consistently stuck up, that it is a torture to even have their glance turn in my direction. I still avoid these people. I run across one or two new ones, occasionally. Sadly, little does X know that X has become one of the people X claims to despise, and doubly sadly, I now find X just as horrible a tangorilla as this one, or this one, in male, or female form.

Another personality quirk that X has, is to dismiss the non-Argentine teachers, dancers, and milonga hosts in our community as unworthy of attention or praise. “I will stick to my Argentine teachers, if you please,” X says. Upon watching performances by revered non-Argentines, X exclaims, “What a crock of mierda. These Americans/Europeans have no idea what tango is about.” (Actually, the Argentines say “carajo”, not “mierda”, to refer to crap). And undoubedly, X, who also happens to be non-Argentine, feels that X is an expert in “what tango is all about.”

I don’t mean to sound so politically correct. I’m not trying to, honestly. But it is just common sense that just because a teacher/dancer is Argentine, doesn’t mean he is a great teacher/dancer. Conversely, just because a teacher/dancer is not Argentine, doesn’t mean he is not a great teacher/dancer. Just because the Chinese didn’t invent Western classical music, doesn’t mean Yo Yo Ma isn’t a great cellist. Just because DJ Krush is Japanese and hardly speaks English, doesn’t mean that he isn’t one of the greatest composers of hip hop the world has ever seen. Just because photography was invented by the French, doesn’t mean that Garry Winogrand isn’t a great photographer.

X works in the (insert any craft here) industry. I just want to scream at X: “Well, (insert any country here) didn’t invent the (insert any craft here) — what makes you think a (insert person of X’s nationality here) such as yourself can excel at it?”

Where is this blind racism coming from?

Let me be frank: I am fully aware of tangueros and tangueras who dance only for a couple of years, and then (to our chagrin) decide they are ready to teach and perform. But a clueless tango grasshopper is clueless no matter what nationality. And these non-Argentine teachers and dancers that X scoffs at, and passionately tells people to avoid, spend half their lives travelling away from home, to be immersed in Argentine culture. They learn the language. They study the dance, and the music. They may dance a different sort of tango that may not be agreeable to some, but it is not difficult to recognize excellence, genius, and emotion, when one is face-to-face with it, in a class, or a milonga. To dismiss artists such as Jennifer Bratt and Ney Melo, or Korey and Mila, just because they are non-Argentines — now, that is a crock of carajo.

This racism of X extends to the milongas and practicas hosted by non-Argentines in our community. I am sure the Argentine hosts and hostesses around the city appreciate X’s patronage, and undying loyalty to the people of Argentina. But it is unnerving to find that X loudly, and verbally discredits and disrepects the events held by others. And yet I see X often frequenting the milongas and practicas maintained and DJed, with painstaking effort, by these same non-Argentines who X despises.

Let me tell you about New York City: Unlike Buenos Aires, Dancing is not a natural state of being over here. I am living in continual fear that there will be no place to tango in my homwtown… That the gestapo city government will shut down these spaces… The city has already restricted the cabaret license into a choke-hold. For example, street photography is dying because the city regulates the use of tripods on the street, and photographers need a permit to photograph in many places where there is open sky — basically almost everywhere. What makes us think that the milongas are safe?

And does X even realise the difficulty of securing places for social dancing in a paranoid city such as this one, where the only way to even step on the beat in the street is to hold a massive peaceful demonstration so huge, that the police will give up and stand by watching?

These non-Argentines are the people who bring us some of the most beloved milongas this city has to offer. Sure, they may not be Argentine… Some may not even be incredible dancers – although some are. Some don’t even teach, some do, and are some of the most revered in the country. And they are responsible for the great effort it takes to keep tango alive in this city — not the revered Argentines who live in Buenos Aires, as much as we love them for their magic, and definitely not people like X who continually complain about the deplorable situation of the “Americans destroying Argentina’s tango.” Perhaps some are, but I know many are not. I’m just thankful there are places to dance, and that is more than one should expect from people who are doing all the work for us, so that people like X can go out and criticize what they’re doing. Sure, they are making some money by doing this, but I don’t know of a single milonga host who makes a living out of hosting milongas.

It’s as if a friend had died, or had moved to another country. No, worse — as if the person I had enoyed talking to and sharing some precious moments with, has never even existed — that the whole friendship was a figment of my imagination.

There is a saying in Argentina, I have learned recently — it is also in a tango called “Niño Bien”:

“Estás mostrando la hilacha.”

Which bascially means: “You are showing your true colors.”

It is heartbreaking when I discover that most everything I knew about a person was a lie, that someone I had once considered a dear friend, I had never known at all. I guess none of this is very new… Friends drift apart all the time, and the people who we think we know show their true characters with time.

But it’s still sickening, nontheless.

I talked with my umma today.

If there is one person on this earth I would describe as my soulmate, it is she. And she is the one who got me into dancing tango, did you know?

I got her a pair of 2.75 inch pewter-colored Comme Il Fauts for Mother’s Day. No woman can have too many beautiful shoes, no matter what her age.

The above photograph of her was taken three years before my birth. At the time, she was 23, younger than I am now. She is still the most youthful person I know, and she has carried her beauty gracefully and naturally (and, I may add, almost supernaturally) into her age.

Let me have inherited a single thimbleful of her courage and strength, her passion and capacity to love so deeply, her delicacy in thought and subtle layers of understanding, the natural grace with which she acts and speaks in everything, and the savagery of her wit, quick as lightening and sharpened to the thinnest blade — and I would consider myself a beautiful woman.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Artist: Mathieu Saura, a.k.a. Vincent Moon

I will be in Buenos Aires in 92 days.

My Lover will be there with me, and he will be showing me the Buenos Aires that he knows and loves. However, I will also be spending lots of time exploring and discovering on my own, with flickle camera in hand.

I am completely overwhelmed by the thought of this place, this country, this continent, this small point on the map of the world globe. I am not only excited about all the tango I’ll be dancing and listening to, but… It’s been so long since I’ve had the chance to explore a new city, that my arms and legs are turning into spaghetti, my mind to jell-o, jiggling around in delight…

I am making my baby-steps in learning about this city before my first trip, starting with reading about it by typing in “Argentina” and “Buenos Aires” into Wikipedia. (I know, sad… but I have to start somewhere, right?), and the TimeOut, Moon, and Wallpaper Guides to Buenos Aires.

I’ve been snuggled into my loveseat, to read the fantastic stories written by my beloved Tango Hours, lovely Psyche, and my favorite New Yorker duo Eva and Malena, and ofcourse, the writings of dear Sallycat, sassy Tina, and chère Cherie — porteñas who write and feel with such fiery spirit.

Also been trying to read TangoScopio’s blog with my (thus far) extremely limited castellano, but I gave up after about five posts, hehe.

The Buenos Aires Herald has been a daily morning read for the past couple of weeks… And today, I will search for a map of Buenos Aires, (and hopefully a subway and bus map), so I can pore over those thin wrinkly streets and triangular barrios and visit them in the imaginary hemispheres of my sleep.

I want to take regular Spanish lessons. And take tango group classes. And eat all the cups of dulce de leche icecream I want. And eat asado and alfahores every day. And take tango private lessons. And be in the milongas. And go shoe shopping. And go to the flea market for the mate. And go to the opera. And the bookstores. And have breakfast in the cafes. And go to the cinema, even though I won’t understand a thing. And wander around and get lost inside the real Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Terius…

36 days of chaotic bliss, enveloped, enfolded by my Lover’s warm, wet mouth, arms scented with cologne, wooden floors, sliding, echoing feet, the brash honking of unfamiliar automobiles, mornings heralded by unfamiliar birds, the fragrance of rain and moisture of an unfamiliar land, the inflections of gestures and tongues curled, interlocked in a more beautiful speech, streets that have witnessed different tragicomedies from the ones I am used to walk upon.

5 weeks.
2 full moons.
1 month, plus
1 week.

Not enough! :-D

By tomorrow, I will be in Buenos Aires in 91 days.

And the day after, in 90 days.

And the day after that, in 89 days……

dear daddy zeno,

i am in a pissy mood.

because,

(inhale-

one thing that sucks being the one with the big camera on a personal non-work-related night out is that you never get to have photos of yourself, but don’t get me wrong, occasionally, i actually love taking pictures, especially of my friends, when the setting is right, and the mood is right, and the lighting is right, and the angle is right, and they’re not smiling into the camera, and they don’t blink when i take the shot, but then everyone seems to magically forget to take out even their digital point-and-shoots when i happen to be there, that i know they all have in their bags, and all of a sudden, i am no longer a human being, or a beautiful woman, or even a friend they are supposedly sharing memories with, but just reduced to being a big black bulging

that is there to document their lives of which i am mysteriously no longer a part, and i hate it when people give me the bullshit, “oh, but you are so very special, you were the one taking the picture, you were there, too, don’t worry,” but, screw that, because i want a pretty picture of myself, too, dammit, and something else that makes me mad is when people point out things they think i should photograph, for instance, when they poke me in the ribs and sigh, “oooooh, look at so-and-so, what a cute dress, what cute hair, she’s so cute…. you should take a picture of that, oh i wish you had brought your camera today, why didn’t you?”, and i want to scream, hello??, what about my cute dress, and my cute hair, what about me, i want a picture of my own cute self, but ofcourse, no one could care less about the photographer-friend, so i end up taking a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror, to include in the album of memories, you know, because i want to be remembered as having been part of things too, and i, too, want to remember what i looked like when i was young and sexy and having fun with loved ones, but ofcourse, a big black camera is covering half my face, and by the time i get that camera away from my eye and someone finally does take pity on me, or perhaps, is actually inspired to take my snapshot, i’ll be old and wrinkled and depressing to look at myself, anyway.

-exhale)

next time, i am leaving the frigging camera at home.

(but ofcourse i won’t).

Artist: Diane Arbus, “Identical twins, Roselle, NJ”, 1967

Man: Would you like to dance?

Nuit: Ok. :)

Man: Wow, I remember you from a loooooong time ago. And I remember how incredible of a dancer you are!

Nuit: (Uh oh.) Errr… I think you might be mistaking me for someone else! I’ve only been dancing for 6 months. Well… 6 and a half.

Man: (Uh oh.) Errr… Oh, uh… I’ve been watching you dance tonight, and you look great! I am sure it was you!

Nuit: Oh. Ok. :-)

Man: Shall we? :-)

One tanda = last tanda.

Man: You are incredible!

Nuit: :-))))))

Man: For a 6-month old!!!

Nuit: :-|

Man: Thank you.

Nuit: Thank you.

:-(

For the record, the man above was super sweet and encouraging, complimenting me after each song, with interjections such as, “Beautiful! Just beautiful.” and “Mmm, that felt very nice indeed.” But I could tell he felt like he was in a tight spot.

I had a lot of fun last night, nonetheless.

The music was so good, I didn’t care if I sucked!

Cheers to incredible DJs. Sometimes, they are the only saving grace of the night…

P.S. You know when you’re really absorbed reading something and you hold your cup of coffee to your face and keep tilting it all the way back, until you’ve realised you drank almost all of it, but it’s too late, and a tiny drop falls into your nostril? Yeah, well. I hate that.

P.P.S. In the above photograph, I love how the twins are wearing differently patterned stockings. And how the floorline is at a skewed angle.

P.P.P.S. Do not watch the movie “Fur.” Avoid it like the plague. It really really really sucks!

P.P.P.P.S. co.mments sucks. Their server is always down! Ok, now to get some work done. Good-bye.

I skipped out on the group class today. Instead, I was doing this while the washing machine was running:

I was in no mood to be a patient cooperative classmate this evening. And I didn’t want to ruin the beautiful memory of last night.

I have a big studio gig tomorrow. Been nervous about it for the past week, and am already starting to get stressed. I didn’t make it to my sister’s wedding because of this shoot. I need to pay rent, and I went a tad bit crazy in Venice, the euro being more like pieces of colorful clown bills than real money. Yes, I am a heartless irresponsible dummy.

If the model is late, I might rip her head off. If she wastes my time by flirting with the grip guy, I am going to punch her out. Being inside the studio working for magazine editors seems to turn me into a nazi.

Probably because I hate it.

Midas: Then grant me that everything I touch, everything I put my hand to, will turn to solid gold.

Bacchus: That’s a really, really bad idea.

Midas: What do you mean it’s a bad idea? It’s a brilliant idea.

-From Metamorphoses, by Mary Zimmerman

Wish me luck.