Intimacy
One, two, three, pause, five, six, seven, pause… Always the same beat, but the music quickens; it quickens me. There is no space to think, no time to procrastinate; I just listen and move. My outward bodily expression precedes, and shapes, my emotions. Move and be moved. There is a girl dancing with me, and I do not know her name, though I now wish I do. There is no time for introductions, no space for chit-chat.
She has an infectious smile. Her dirty-blonde hair sways and swishes as she turns under my outstretched arm. I sometimes wonder what makes a good match on the dance-floor. She gives, I take, I give, she takes; we respond to each other’s cues with alacrity, grace and prescience. This doesn’t happen often enough. I make extended eye contact. Surprisingly, this also occurs infrequently – physical intimacy in salsa is necessary, but the body and mind are easily disconnected. I read in her face the same recognition, the same quickening in spirit. The dance studio and the dancers around us recede into a distant halo, and though the music never stops, I hear more keenly the silence that permeates the space between us, and binds us together. Her lips are curved in mysterious satisfaction, and I am happy. Her radiant smile carries me through the dance, this smile that is mine, mine alone.
The song ends. We part hands, and I say thank you, because I say thank you to all my dance partners. We will dance again, but not today. Today, in the Wagner Dance Facility, I will dance with many other partners, because the practice is to exchange partners and never get too comfortable with one. The rationale for ‘social dancing’ in lessons is simple: you are more likely to expose your own weaknesses by having to dance with a variety of partners, who have different body shapes and respond differently to the same cues.
When I first began to learn salsa, I was thrust into an alien culture of ‘casual intimacy’, and the initial shock was at once liberating, and disquieting. Like clockwork, I would dance with a stranger, and part from her when the song ends, to move on immediately to the next partner. The dance-floor is my idea of a social anomaly, because it provides a respectable setting where everyday touch-me-not constraints are relaxed. Fingers release, seek each other out, and intertwine during turns; hips and bodies mold into one another vigorously; while in close-embrace position, a firm hand clasps her back to cue the next move. One of my favorite moves is also the simplest to perform. It is called, appropriately, the Hair Comb: I would raise both her arms in a delicate arc that sweeps over and may lightly touch her hair. This move ends as I gently pin her hands to the back of her neck. If I were pressed to explain why I especially like the Hair Comb, I admit that it closely resembles the classic picture of a lover’s caress, and a woman’s vulnerability. The illusion of a lover’s intimacy is potent, so potent that sometimes the spirit quickens, and the illusion dissipates, but the intimacy remains.
Two years ago. A popular salsa bar in Union Square, Singapore. I am a beginner, and I am dancing with a girl, once again. This time, the music is too quick, and I often fail to follow the beat. This time, I know the girl’s name, and she is my reason for being there, for learning salsa, for making a fool of myself.
Close embrance. Spin. Open break. Cross-body lead.
I wonder if she knows.
(She will.)
Hammerhold lock. Break out. Spin again. Faster. Faster.
One, two, three, pause, five, six, seven, pause… Always the same beat, but the music quickens; it quickens me. There is no space to think, no time to procrastinate; I just listen and move. My outward bodily expression precedes, and shapes, my emotions. Move and be moved. There is a girl dancing with me, and I do not know her name, though I now wish I do. There is no time for introductions, no space for chit-chat.
She has an infectious smile. Her dirty-blonde hair sways and swishes as she turns under my outstretched arm. I sometimes wonder what makes a good match on the dance-floor. She gives, I take, I give, she takes; we respond to each other’s cues with alacrity, grace and prescience. This doesn’t happen often enough. I make extended eye contact. Surprisingly, this also occurs infrequently – physical intimacy in salsa is necessary, but the body and mind are easily disconnected. I read in her face the same recognition, the same quickening in spirit. The dance studio and the dancers around us recede into a distant halo, and though the music never stops, I hear more keenly the silence that permeates the space between us, and binds us together. Her lips are curved in mysterious satisfaction, and I am happy. Her radiant smile carries me through the dance, this smile that is mine, mine alone.
The song ends. We part hands, and I say thank you, because I say thank you to all my dance partners. We will dance again, but not today. Today, in the Wagner Dance Facility, I will dance with many other partners, because the practice is to exchange partners and never get too comfortable with one. The rationale for ‘social dancing’ in lessons is simple: you are more likely to expose your own weaknesses by having to dance with a variety of partners, who have different body shapes and respond differently to the same cues.
When I first began to learn salsa, I was thrust into an alien culture of ‘casual intimacy’, and the initial shock was at once liberating, and disquieting. Like clockwork, I would dance with a stranger, and part from her when the song ends, to move on immediately to the next partner. The dance-floor is my idea of a social anomaly, because it provides a respectable setting where everyday touch-me-not constraints are relaxed. Fingers release, seek each other out, and intertwine during turns; hips and bodies mold into one another vigorously; while in close-embrace position, a firm hand clasps her back to cue the next move. One of my favorite moves is also the simplest to perform. It is called, appropriately, the Hair Comb: I would raise both her arms in a delicate arc that sweeps over and may lightly touch her hair. This move ends as I gently pin her hands to the back of her neck. If I were pressed to explain why I especially like the Hair Comb, I admit that it closely resembles the classic picture of a lover’s caress, and a woman’s vulnerability. The illusion of a lover’s intimacy is potent, so potent that sometimes the spirit quickens, and the illusion dissipates, but the intimacy remains.
Two years ago. A popular salsa bar in Union Square, Singapore. I am a beginner, and I am dancing with a girl, once again. This time, the music is too quick, and I often fail to follow the beat. This time, I know the girl’s name, and she is my reason for being there, for learning salsa, for making a fool of myself.
Close embrance. Spin. Open break. Cross-body lead.
I wonder if she knows.
(She will.)
Hammerhold lock. Break out. Spin again. Faster. Faster.
posted by Dr. Broke at 6:32 AM
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