Milonga ready furniture signals you are in a tango home. Dining tables that fold into the wall, easily movable couches, coffee tables on sliders. Minimalism taken to an extreme because space filled with stuff can’t be filled with steps. Wood floors, the tango feng shui. You can’t Calo on carpet, nor Lomuto on laminate. Whether dream home with two custom-built dance floors, or studio apartment with patio converted to miniature dance space, the aesthetics are the same. Racks of ladies heels on prominent display, mirrors everywhere, and wood bar bolted at hip height complete the curated set.
A strange man with abnormally dark round glasses on coffee mugs. A picture of a fat guy playing what looks to be an accordion. Walls adorned with photos and paintings of poses, embraces, lifts, and dips. Computer screen paused on a YouTube playlist with a little 030 inside a red circle in the top left corner. Old music playing from a new sound system. Tables littered with flyers for festivals, future and past.
Closets filled with baggy pants, slitted dresses, silk flowery shirts for both women and men. Skirts checked so heels don’t catch, outfits selected to easily fit in a suitcase. Clothes that normal people don’t wear, there to highlight that the inhabitants of this household aren’t normal.
A warm greeting from Pugliese the dog, Tanturi the cat, Goncho the bonsai tree, to name a few. Strange names of people talked about. Musicians, DJs, and dancers we have met, want to meet, wish we had met, are sad to have lost. Our famous aren’t famous, but they are famous to us.
Tango seeps into our homes and into our lives. It changes how we dress and how we decorate. It changes how we hug when we say hi. It opens our thoughts and feelings, affects our dreams and our desires. A truth binding us together, wherever in the world and whatever journey we are on, that tango is more than just a dance.