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The closing dance of the Tuscany tango trip in October 2026 — Isabella & me, no script, sentence by sentence, born in the moment.
When I learn a new language, I can cram whole sentences by heart. “Where’s the train station?” “A coffee, please.” Good enough for a holiday. Until someone answers with something unexpected. Then I’m stuck.
For me, tango is exactly that kind of language. Just with the body. There are vowels — the open, resonant part: axis, breath, uprightness. And consonants — the clear, shaping part: weight transfer, dissociation, the direction of an energy. From these I put together syllables, words and, at some point, my own little phrases. Those are my language tools.
The better I know them, the more finely I can chat. With Isabella, with the music, with the moment. Sometimes a single sound. Sometimes a long, flowing sentence. Sometimes just a pause — and that often says the most.
And at some point something beautiful happens: I start building my own sentences. With my rhythm, my emphasis, my way of taking a breath. My ductus, my handwriting. Or simply: my slang. That’s my TangoStyle.
Figures? To me they’re ready-made sentences from someone else. You can learn them and — if things go well — string them together somehow in rhythm with the music. It works. For a while. But I’m drawn more to the HOW than the WHAT: the syllables a figure is built from. Then volcada, gancho or boleo come all by themselves — not as a quote, but as an answer.
That’s exactly what Isabella & I pass on in class. Dancing, with each and every one. So that in the end everyone dances their own tango style.
