La Nuit Blanche

A short film made with photographs.

People’s reactions to the paper:

미인도 (Miindo, or “Portrait of a Beauty”), circa late 17th century
Painter: Hyewon, a.k.a. Shin, Yun-Bok

My favorite painter in the whole world is Hyewon, of the Joseon Dynasty of Korea, born in the mid 17th century.  The above is his most famous painting, of a mysterious woman purported to be the legendary kisaeng-poetess Hwang, Jin-Yi, also known as “Myeongwol” (“bright moon”).

Right now, a semi-fictional-biographical film is being made about the painter and his work, and I am really excited. So I’ve been scouring youtube for a trailer of the film, and lo and behold — the music score used for the teaser is a tango. :-D

An interesting version, played with an ajaeng, a traditional Korean 7-stringed zither played with a long thin wooden stick.  You can see some of Hyewon’s paintings in the above video.

Here is another trailer of the film I found:

And yes.  Those fabulous wigs were really worn two hundred years ago in Korea!

(I think I was born in the wrong century).

Right now, I am packing my things into boxes. I’m moving to another apartment in another neighborhood in a few days, yipee! Into a sleek new modern building, where there is always hot water, and 24 hours of heat during the winter, and an elevator, and sound-proofing between floors, and light fixtures that won’t come toppling down over my head, and a refridgerator with a door that doesn’t fall off its hinges, and a kitchen sink where the knobs aren’t set backwards, and a bathroom where the ceiling won’t cave in…

Oh yes. I haven’t told you about my bathroom adventure a few weeks ago. There was a leak in the ceiling, the evil landlady refused to fix it, I called the city to report it, the landlady ignored it, and a couple days before the city officials were due to come for an inspection, the ceiling smashed onto the floor.

My Lover and I were cuddling on the loveseat, picnicking on a feast of wine, olives, cheeses, Greek dolmas, pickled onions, marinated sun-dried tomatoes, strawberries dusted with sugar, dulce de leche icecream, and sweet bread dipped in the most delicious olive oil, not paying much attention to the movie for watching each other play and eat. We were celebrating the sixth month anniversary of the day we met… And then plop! and crash!. It was a wet, gooey, dusty affair.

I thought of suing the witch this time at last, and then setting her hair on fire. I did that. Several times! In my sweetest daydreams.

This beautiful historic mansion was lovely for a while, but I’ve learned my lesson. Convenience over beauty, when it comes to living quarters, is, regrettably, essential for any human being. I am done with this madhouse. Lars von Trier could have filmed his “Element of Crime” right in my living room. And “The Kingdom” in the lobby and stairwells. I swear this building is haunted…

I’ll be packing my tango shoes into a separate valise, and carrying them with me in the cab ride to the new apartment. Just in case my gorgeous babies get damaged, you know. You never know.

A scary post, from a favorite blog:

Who put the ‘Gau’ in Gaucho? A (Forged) Map of Nazi South America
-by Strange Maps

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……

Artist: Original drawing by the author of Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

Almost exactly one year ago, I walked into a dance studio, and started dancing tango.

Well, it was supposed to be tango, but it probably looked more like a cross between the WWF and a dismal medieval funeral procession marched backwards. Bobbing up and down… On stilts…

(Ugh.)

And with my very first step, to the very first note of the very first song, which I no longer remember, I fell in love.

Back then, the only things I knew about that far-away land of Argentina were:

Jorge Luis Borges
Gato Barbieri
Astor Piazzolla
Madonna singing that incredibly annoying song.

Since then…

I have been impregnated by a magic seed, and am awakening to find myself climbing an enormous beanstalk. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and when I forget to chase that elusive ghostly white rabbit, I am staring at my own transformation in wonder, wide-eyed, through the looking-glass. My floppy, clumsy tail has been exchanged for a pair of real legs and strong feet. Those misadventures through frightening forests of mean old trees are behind me, and now the flowers are teaching me the art of their effervescent colors, the secret to their ephermeral scents. Along the way, I have met my share of evil sorcerers, stupid ogres, spiteful goblins, and ugly dwarves… But when I get too frightened or tired, I peek into the occasional gingerbread house, and partake of shiny, sparkly, glittery things that make me very happy, indeed. And ofcourse, I consistently ignore the midnight curfew, comme il faut, or no, and, I have kissed my frog prince…

Last night, to celebrate, the Lover and I threw core strength and dissociation, groundedness and connection, all obsessive thoughts of practice and technique, buck all to the winds, and just danced for fun. I didn’t care if my hysterical giggling made our chests vibrate against each other, my right eyeball knock against his cheekbone. He didn’t care if his head was at a weird angle while his lips were on my forehead, kissing me for the duration of half a song. Everything we learned and had absorbed into our bodies just fell into place, our imperfections naturally adjusted themselves to the other, we fit together like a puzzle, and we had a blast.

This dark, hilarious, difficult, fantastically delicious fairytale gesamtkunstwerk that is the Tango is now so much a part of my life, that I feel as if I have always, always been dancing it. And I am going to dance it until I am 365 years-old.

And my dear blogueros and blogueras, you will all be there dancing and writing right there with me, right?

Love,
Nuit.

…But memories are in color.

I know it comes maybe once in a lifetime.

And it has passed, for both of us, into nostalgia, mingled (always, don’t deny it) with regret.

(I saw it, the thing that encompasses the whole essence of you, that one thing that marks us unto death, the memories relived with the copies of copies of copies of people and places that we wish could replace the void it left inside of us when we realize it has gone away, irretrievably, into the past.)

Now I know I have never been your’s.

And someone else is here.

Source: Top Secret

This is where I’ll be tonight. I’ll be doing something different, in the dark wilderness of non-tangoland, and I am actually excited to be doing something that does not take place inside a dance studio.

I’ll be smoking indoors holding a cigarette holder made of yellow enamel. Strings of glass necklaces will be clicking against each other as I reach over for a vial of radioactive absinthe. Silk brushing against my legs, and a thin wispy black lace mask floating around my smokey eyes. Burlesque on stage revealing bits and pieces of pale glistening skin. Live jazz and drunken laughter. Smeared lipstick. The intoxicating possibility of the authorities shutting us down ’round about midnight…

Decadent?  Yes!  It’ll get messy, and it sounds just a bit grotesque, but this is New York, baby, and it’s a speakeasy, and that makes it fabulous. And I’ll knock ‘em dead with my Comme Il Fauts. ;)

Now, it’d be just perfect if they had a bandoneon, and we could all dance tango…

(Just kidding).

p.s. …some tango maybe afterwards…??

yesterday was new york’s first snow.

it was also the centennial of the brassiere.

so i thought of my two favorite girls in san francisco…

the apple is red,
red forever the leaves where memory, like water,
seeps and sinks,
ever beyond two layers,
unnoticed and unobserved.
the horns of autumn are lifted beyond the woods,
compelling and sweet.
the frost moves, covers and bites in silence.
september sends down to us its message,
a yellow leaf whirling in ecstasy,
before sleep,
before death.
the dragon fly lights on the grey bark of tree
and is gone to some distant point of sky.
where does the round moon live?

where does the round moon live?
are the trees afire in the crimson sunset?
the eye is seen and remembered through other eyes.
the horizons are numberless as falling drops of rain.
the eye opens,
the first silent movement of the day.
the eyes are not related in unison.

-Excerpt of a poem by painter Mark Tobey, 1952