Tanguedia

He looks at her, as she puts her arm across the shoulder of the man she is dancing with. They cannot look at each other, of course: this is a dance founded in the whorehouses of Argentina. Men from good families never looked at whores. They held them, however, as her partner holds her, by the waist, his body arching over hers. He pivots backward, in one swift move, pulling her up with him, and for one fleeting moment, as the few strands of hair that have strayed out of her loose braids touch his neck, he knows all rules will melt away, discipline will shatter to the ground, and they will look at each other. For one fleeting moment, he knows. Until she flings herself across from the man, and that moment is broken. She twirls back, he picks her up by the waist, and swings her through the air, her long, black, wild hair opening onto her shoulders.

He looks at her, his muse, his actress, his lover, as she steps back in position, standing diagonally from the man she is dancing with, there, under the high ceilings of a withering building in Paris. The only light they have comes in through the cracks in the walls, touching the back of her hand as she places it on his shoulder. She does not look at the man she dances with, no.

He looks at her, as she looks back at him.

Tangos: The Exile of Gardel. Fernando Solanas. A film meant to be on the lives of Argentinean exiles living in Paris, but one which must be watched, as far as I am concerned, simply for its stunning beauty.

H, you must watch. Also because I'm sure you’re acquainted with Gardel. No?