Читать книгу Tango - Justin Vivian Bond - Страница 4

Preface

BY HILTON ALS

A LONG TIME AGO, I USED TO SPEND TIME WITH the members of a dance troupe; they performed under the name Tango Argentina, and, once or twice a week, I went to see them perform; their dance of passion—the tango—was an early twentieth-century invention, and had been culled, shaped, out of the music and dancing style poor blacks brought with them from Africa to places like Buenos Aires and Montevideo; the tango dancers I knew on Broadway, performing night after night in front of an enthralled audience, followed the spectacle’s attitudinal rules; that is, the men danced in a way that was meant to exaggerate their maleness as they moved about the stage in dark suits, while the women accentuated their femaleness in heels that made their ankles wobble; in short, I learned, fairly quickly, that the tango was gender-based; men lead the women but the women controlled the rhythm of the couple’s movements with a shift of the hips, a turning away of the head; the women contributed greatly to this moving picture of love gone awry by projecting their powerful difference and anger while drawing the men into their interior world; all that aside, I loved looking at those doomedseeming partners as they moved through that abstraction known as dance; it was like watching a sentence unravel; or sometimes I imagined the dancers’ sinuous moves as the visualization of breathing itself, breath as it moved in and out of the body, providing sustenance to the dancers, or maybe not even the dancers, maybe just you in your darkened bedroom, wondering if your body would mean as much to someone in the world as those dancers meant to an audience sitting in the dark, one that maybe took a look at the history of their respective bodies as the dancers moved across that stage, sometimes inciting audience members to wonder about their own bodies, and how, as men and women living strictly in maleness and femaleness, they had limited their movements let alone their lives, in order to fit categorizations or stock characters that fill the world stage, wherever that is; and I probably wouldn’t have remembered my friends over at Tango Argentina—time erases us all—had I not read Mx Justin Vivian Bond’s book, Tango, which hardly needs an introduction, but I am very grateful for the opportunity to write this sentence nevertheless, or have this exhalation of breath, if only to say I can relax now, Justin Vivian has, finally, talked about bodies in a way all of us can understand, bodies moving in space, specifically Mx’s own, and through sentences that cause my body to stop wondering what it might mean to others while starting to wonder what this mortal coil might mean to myself, in the dark or in the light, held by my own hands, or the hands of others; in Tango and elsewhere, the performer and singer Justin Vivian has learned to dance with V’s self, to wear the heels and the suit that fit V’s being, all cut and formed to suit V’s soul, having earned it as so many of us earn it, through being brutalized and suppressed and sometimes through love, too; this sentence could go on; it could go on to talk about Justin Vivian’s authorial voice, which tells us, in so many words, about being Mx from the beginning, and then being told not to be, except in the safe home of a man who kissed his dead wife’s picture every night before he went to bed; and I wondered, while reading Tango, what that might have meant to little Mx, seeing the dead image of a dead woman and bringing pleasure to an old man who liked Mx’s Ginger as much as Mx’s Fred; and I wonder, too, about the boulder that was removed in Justin Vivian’s town so children wouldn’t get hurt on it, the antisepticizing impulse of people who don’t want to deal with pain and regret even as they inflict it; and, yes, Justin Vivian describes that, too, how the children in his town learned to hurt each other anyway, based on what they learned at home, along with learning to fear their bodies, and the vulnerability that comes with love; and I wondered, too, what darkness looked like in Justin Vivian’s room as Mx became Justin Vivian more and more, despite the promulgating of souls all around; did Justin Vivian tango with Mx’s own soul in that darkened room as it filled up with a kind of loneliness, and the town filled up with loneliness, too, as Justin Vivian’s mother’s manifested itself in making her own child an accessory to be dropped at will because love sometimes crushed her, too, and alienated her from her purer impulse, which was to see and celebrate what she saw of herself in Justin Vivian even as she said, No, you must not, you cannot, sport the lipstick I wear, our lips must not touch our shared truths and love of cosmetics, even as I wonder what Justin Vivian’s first brush of lipstick smelled like in that riot of closeness and distance called V’s family home; even as I imagine, from the pages of this book, what Justin Vivian’s tango of the self looked like as Mx grew up to inhabit Justin Vivian’s very own passion play on a stage Mx now controls, in a safe arena Mx now makes dangerous, ankles wobbling in high heels, defiantly and naturally sporting a red mouth that pulses like a wound.