There’s a version of tango
that looks perfect.
And then there’s the version
that feels real.
You’ve seen the polished one
-posture like sculpture,
legs slicing the air,
drama turned up to eleven.
It’s impressive.
Mesmerizing, even.
But sometimes,
it feels
far away.
Like watching something
through glass.
Then there’s the other kind.
The quiet embrace in the corner.
No fireworks.
No spectacle.
Just two people
holding each other
like it matters.
And somehow,
you can’t stop watching.
Because what you’re seeing
isn’t performance.
It’s presence.
No one’s
trying to be seen.
No one’s
trying to win.
They’re just in it,
deeply, honestly, fully.
That’s the tango I care about.
The one where the connection is the art.
Where the beauty comes from what’s felt,
not just what’s shown.
Where you don’t have to prove anything,
just be there, and mean it.
It’s easy to forget that
in a world obsessed with image.
Where even intimacy
gets filtered, staged, and shared.
But tango
brings you back.
It reminds you
that the most powerful thing
you can offer
isn’t perfection.
It’s yourself.
Not the polished version.
Not the clever one.
The present one.
The breathing one.
The one that’s willing to feel.
Because when you show up like that
-unguarded, aware, alive-
something happens between you
that can’t be choreographed.
That’s the kind of tango
I believe in.
Not the one
that’s admired.
The one
that’s lived.
by Dimitris Bronowski
Picture – Alexander Zabara
