Three Theories on Leading

The traditional theory of leading in Argentine tango is the drive theory, which defines the lead as a driving force. According to this theory, the man acts as the "driver," guiding the woman’s movements with his torso. This approach reflects the macho culture and traditional gender roles in Argentine tango: the man holds the woman gently yet firmly as she leans forward on him, with her chest against his and her arm around his shoulder. In this framework, the woman does not need to plan or initiate steps; she simply surrenders, allowing him to guide her movements. Through the torso-to-torso connection, he can easily lead her by propelling her forward, rotating his torso to make her step to his side, twirling his torso clockwise or counterclockwise to make her revolve around him, swaying her torso to bring her free leg to swing, swiveling his torso to make her produce a planeo, or reversing the swivel to elicit a boleo, and so on. The drive method is popular among feeling-oriented dancers who are drawn to the warmth of the embrace, the sensation of two connected bodies moving in sync to the music, and the deep, soulful communication between partners. For them, tango is an inward-focusing and highly synchronized experience. What makes a good leader is his ability to use his body to shape the movement of the woman. What makes a good follower is her ability to synchronize her movement to his. Steps serve primarily to facilitate the embrace, allowing both partners to move harmoniously. Feeling-oriented dancers prefer simple steps to avoid complexity and distraction, focusing instead on the music, connection, feelings, communication, and achieving a sense of unity. This theory underpins the milonguero style of tango.
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An alternative theory is la marca theory, which defines the lead as a series of signals or marks. In this approach, the lead might involve a push on the follower's palm, a pull on her back, a tap on her side, a drag of her hand, a sideways application of strength with his arms, or contact from thigh to thigh, among others. These signals act as secret codes, conveying the leader’s intentions. According to this theory, “Mastering tango is mastering the making of signals” (Tango: The Art History of Love, by Robert Farris Thompson). One disadvantage of this method is that it encourages leading with the arms and hands, diverging from the traditional drive method that uses the torso to lead. Another issue is the lack of standardized signaling: each dancer may develop their own marks, requiring the follower to interpret idiosyncratic cues. This variability can lead to inconsistency, miscommunication, and discomfort. Nevertheless, this approach has significantly influenced tango’s evolution. Because signals often produce varied responses, the leader must be flexible and responsive, shifting tango toward a less synchronized and more reactive dance. The Villa Urquiza style of tango, characterized by a looser embrace and an emphasis on footwork guided more by the arms and hands, is closely associated with this theory.

A more unconventional theory is the invitation theory, promoted by some in the West who, influenced by liberal ideologies such as individualism, feminism, and political correctness, challenge traditional gender roles. Advocates of this approach prefer an open embrace that allows for greater independence and personal expression. This theory defines the lead as an invitation—the leader's role is to offer proposals, while respecting the follower's choice in how she responds. The process is described as follows: “The leader ‘invites’ the lady to enter a room. She accepts the invitation and, in her own time, enters, and he then follows. In a sense, therefore, the leader has become the follower” (A Passion for Tango, by David Turner). This approach changes tango in several fundamental ways. First, it alters the embrace from an A-shaped frame to an H-shaped one, allowing each partner greater independence but reducing the intimacy between them. Second, the absence of torso contact forces dancers to rely on their arms and hands for communication—even though, ideally, these should remain relaxed and uninvolved in leading. Third, this method only works if the follower is experienced enough to interpret subtle torso cues. Otherwise, the leader may resort to using his arms and hands, which can feel uncomfortable, coercive, or confusing when his arms and hands move inconsistently with his torso (see Men's Common Mistakes in Tango). Finally, even if the follower can read the torso, the lack of direct contact makes the lead more ambiguous, giving her greater interpretive freedom and requiring the leader to adapt to her responses. As a result, their roles become more fluid, with less emphasis on synchronization and greater focus on individual expression. This shift transforms tango from a feeling-oriented, intimate experience into a performance-oriented dance centered on visual flair and personal style. (See The Styles of Tango.)

Tango Is a Feeling

Steps are often described as tango’s “vocabulary,” a term that highlights their role as tools—a medium through which music and emotion find expression. At its core, tango is not about the steps themselves; it is about what those steps convey—as someone famously put it, “Tango is a feeling that is danced.”

Defining feelings is no simple task. They span a vast spectrum—emotions, sentiments, moods, daydreams, euphoria, sorrow, excitement, and even the elusive duende. In essence, tango evokes a unique state of mind—one in which we feel most alive: exuberant, creative, fluent, eloquent, and fulfilled. Yet this state is often fleeting and unpredictable. It can arise unbidden—or not at all, even when we long for it. Still, anyone who has truly felt it knows its power. For many of us, that feeling is what makes tango so profoundly addictive (see The Psychology in Tango).

The reason tango can evoke such feelings in part lies in its music. High-quality tango music is essential for a truly fulfilling experience—it connects us, ignites our imagination, liberates our expression, and fuels creativity on the dance floor. The most compelling music—marked by clear rhythms, evocative melodies, and profound emotional depth—does far more than provide structure. It resonates within us, stirs the soul, shapes our mood, and elevates us into that rare, transformative state of mind. We dance not merely to execute steps but to share the music and the emotions it inspires with another. When recalling a memorable milonga, it is not the sequence of steps that stays with us, but the profound connection and the imprint of emotion left by the music.

Yet music alone is not enough—the embrace is equally vital. Perhaps more than anything, tango’s essence is found in the embrace (see The Fourteenth Pitfall of a Tanguera). Contrary to what beginners may believe, the embrace is not merely a physical frame or hold; it is the connection that unites us, the communication that links our hearts, the intimacy that soothes our souls, and the physical touch that ignites chemistry. Tango embrace fulfills a profound human need, providing connection, belonging, and a sense of completeness. It recalls something primal and deeply comforting—the warmth of a mother’s chest, the protection of a father’s arms, the cradle of infancy, the safety of home. Tango reminds us that we are not our best in isolation but in togetherness. In its purest form, tango is a longing for “home,” found in each other as we dance, becoming whole through unity. Without the embrace, tango loses its soul and becomes just another ordinary dance.

If the embrace is essential, so too is the partner. That transcendent feeling remains unreachable when dancing with someone who has not yet learned how to truly embrace. Unfortunately, a pedagogy focused solely on steps often creates such dancers. They avoid closeness, lean away to create distance, cling mechanically, or remain emotionally absent. These dancers miss the very heart of tango (see The Connection between Partners).

Dancing tango is akin to cradling a baby in your arms, singing a lullaby as you gently rock her to sleep, or resting in a parent’s embrace, swayed tenderly by a hymn into a dream. Tango is warmth. It is safety. It is shared. Its music, its embrace, its connection, and its rhythmic movement weave a hypnotic spell, transporting us to a place so blissful we hesitate to return when the tanda ends (see The Cradle Effect). Yes, steps are necessary—but only as servants of the embrace, keeping us moving together as one.

Tango mirrors a real-life relationship: rich with challenges yet sustained by trust, unity, mutual support, and love. It demands surrender, devotion, and the courage to remain connected. If you embrace tango from this perspective, you will discover an entirely different dance—one that is profoundly intimate, romantic, comforting, dreamy, soulful, and fulfilling.

The Tango in All of Us, by Beatriz Dujovne

At the end of our quest, a question remains unanswered: What is the power in the heart of this dance? Why does the tango - born of the angst inherited from the 19th century and the tensions of the 20th - speak so compellingly to people of the 21st century now?

Something in it feeds our hunger for being on a level with others. Something in it understands our rebellion and soothes our longing for “home,” giving us a sense of belonging and a shared communication that knows no barriers. Something in it mirrors our nostalgia. We are nostalgic, each of us, historically: we all have emigrated from the warm, the safe, and the personal. Our feelings parallel those of the inventors of tango, who left their familiar homes to arrive in a city where they saw their dreams for a better future crushed by an unexpected reality. They had to reinvent themselves and adapt to a world of sudden and rapid change. Our world no less than theirs puts us face to face with a grave uncertainty about the future: they did not know if they could survive in the small locality of the Rio de La Plata; we do not know if we can survive in a global world that veers us away from our most precious possessions - our subjectivity and our hearts.

The malaise of our times - the philosophy “any gain is good” - demands that we look outside for direction, that we put our status ahead of our hearts, that we treasure possessions over human connections and subjective fulfillment. What we lose in these exchanges are our “homes,” our hearts, our values. We are irredeemably nostalgic for that. Historically we have arrived at a nightmare of greed and its consequences: terror, endless competition, infinite careerism, alienation.

We are not only nostalgic. The “any gain is good” attitude is the culprit of another malaise: we are developing the uncanny homesickness that descends upon people who are still at home but feel estranged from the place they have lived all their lives. It has been called “solstalgia”: it occurs when ecological changes leave people watching their gardens becoming infertile, their birds disappearing, their crops and animals perishing.

The 19th century-born tango understands our 21st century “algias,” our nostalgia and solstalgia, our isolation-algia, our fragility, our immigrant condition, our anger at human-manufactured threats to life. That’s how this dance of tenderness and connection eases our return to a safe and warm “home.”

Whether as music, dance, poetry, lifestyle, or identity, the tango still fulfills human needs and soothes our 21st century angst. This is its power, but… is this all that propelled it to rise above cultures and to resonate around the globe? As I pondered this question, I flashed back to two experiences. I copy them here from my life notes; this is the first:

I wanted to participate in the miracle of birth, as an observer. The mother had to be someone I did not know. I was allowed into the delivery room, which was the mother’s private hospital room. Decorated in shades of green, everything was impeccably sterile.

When labor began, the “all” of life looked me straight in the eyes. There it was, staring me down. At its rawest. Unedited.

Mother’s ecstasy. Mother’s agony. Cries of joy. Cries of pain. Hard labor. Sweat. Blood. Strange body materials. Malodorous fluids. A mother’s body without will. Nature pouring her insides out. A thunderstorm agitating the ocean.

A mother’s suffering became a baby’s head, then a baby’s body, then a little person who could cry his very own terror out loud with his brand new lungs. This now human being could only calm down when his father’s arms held him securely and tightly close to his chest.

The birthing mother could have been an English queen surrounded by an entourage of caretakers, giving birth in the luxury of a palace. Or a woman from the Argentine pampas. Or a Muslim with a veil. The baby could have been any color. As never before, the basic common experience of all mothers and all babies struck me as being uncannily identical.

In that delivery room, I felt myself made of the “stuff” tango is made of: the beautiful and the ugly, the joy and the pain, the blood and the sweat, the fragrances and the odors. Tango has earth in its soul. It melts down differences by zeroing in on our commonality. Tango is all of us in life’s common places. It is who we are at the core, behind our social masks.

How is it that other social dances do not take us there? I believe that the physical tango embrace is a one-second ticket to emotions so old we do not have names for them, to the moment we enter this world as a creature. In the embrace, we are held in the same exact vertical position against someone’s chest, feeling safe and connected, engaging in a myriad of bodily duets. This ineffable universal “home,” the beginning of our ontology, still matters to us in that zone of the “unconscious,” where present and past are one and the same.

I heard the sound of silence during my visit to the Galapagos Islands, off the coast of Ecuador, in the wildlife that inspired Charles Darwin, in the habitat that remains largely as it was when he studied it. We were not supposed to disturb the animals while touring the islands. When we encountered, on our narrow path, the Blue-footed Boobies with their white and black outfits and blue painted feet, they did not walk away or fly off. We humans stopped in our tracks. Then we detoured so as not bother them.

They owned the place. The familiar differences between urban animals and humans did not exist in Galapagos. In that semi-pristine landscape, it was crystal clear that they had more rights than we did… Detouring around them, we reached the ocean; a sea lion had given birth in the beach. I could tell because a solitary placenta was basking in the sun, waiting to become food for another species. Perfect cycles of nature: one’s discard becomes food for another.

On that beach, for the first and only time in my life, I listened to a new sound of silence. Not the one that results from absence of noise. A silence that enveloped the earth and the skies and everything in a larger dimension, where human and animals lived in a shared space and had equal rights. This zone transcended both our species.

The delivery room and the Galapagos confronted me with something basically human… maybe bigger than human… cosmic perhaps.

In bother memories I encountered a point, as it is at the beginning of life and (I imagine) as it is at the end of life. Between these two points, we do the dance of life that pushes them apart… We grow away from our common stock, from our one same story, believing that our different affiliations to country, religion or ethnicity separate us. We kill for those beliefs. And in many cultures we deny our bodies as inferior to our minds and spirits. Tango bypasses all these camouflages of the self and goes right into the ineffable zone of the cosmic where we were in the first place, to that ineffable story of sameness, those points where our bodily nature screams its existence.

Tango’s power also resides in how it works in our psyches from the inside. The carnal embrace destabilizes our polar tendencies, while giving us a visceral sense of being more complete. The dance is a meeting ground of opposites and synthesis of the extremes that are in our very cores: man and woman, masculinity and femininity, oneness and separation, spirituality and carnality - all of these universally human polarities clash and blend in the embrace. We dance our man and woman to the fullest, in halves that need and complement each other. Yet, in this dance where the polar genders meet, I feel strands of androgyny that we dance, that we hear in the music, that we experience in the poetic text and in the singing. Many compositions insist on the beat; they seem more masculine. Others are melodically slower and gentler; they seem more feminine. Others balanced in their melodic and rhythmic aspects. Men and women singers switch from grave “masculinity” to tender “femininity” in voice and feeling in a fraction of a second. So do poets, who, in a macho culture, felt free to express their “feminine” emotions.

The opposites of oneness and separation do their own dance as well. The embrace summons us back to a wonderful oceanic experience, where two of us become one - for three minutes - until we recover our boundaries. The distinguished psychoanalyst Otto Fenichel used the expression “oceanic” to refer to the blurring of boundaries between self and world (which is uncannily similar to the experience of “merging” reported by dancers in moments of transport). It is a wonderful metaphor for the connection we feel but that others cannot see. In certain moments of the dance we go back to the ocean. In the rhythmic tides of the music we rise and fall; we are waves with a form that merge with the water, but that soon enough acquire individuality again. As dancers directly or indirectly told us, even in nonspectacular moments, we often feel snatches of a vast zone beyond ourselves and a sense of connection to more than what our senses perceive.

Not only does the dance fulfill needs, but it also confronts us with our ineffable nature, with a mystery our minds cannot understand but our emotions do.

Whether as dance, lifestyle or identity, song lyric or alternative culture, the tango has proven itself able to fulfill universal human needs. Most popular dances celebrate the happy side of life and put the tragic off to the side; the tango speaks to our pain and losses without trivializing or erasing them. Instead by in fact confronting and intensifying what is usually left in the margins, it summons us back to our realness.

Its initial spread and its current resurgence around the world show that, despite the disparities of time and place, language, skin color, religion or social status, we find ourselves, we find each other, we find the tango’s strength in strangers’ arms.


Beatriz Dujovne. In Strangers' Arms: The Magic of the Tango. North Carilina: McFarland & Company, 2011.

The Styles of Tango

Many terms are used to describe different styles of tango, such as tango milonguero, tango apilado, tango Villa Urquiza, estilo del centro, estilo del barrio, the salón style, tango de salón, tango fantasia, tango Nuevo, and tango para exportar.

The origins of various dance styles lie in human psychology. People who are feeling-oriented tend to focus on inner experiences. These dancers, many are milongueros, developed the milonguero style of tango, also known as tango milonguero or tango apilado. It is danced in a close embrace with a slightly leaning (apilado) position, featuring intimate physical contact and simple steps to emphasize connection and feelings. This style is commonly seen at tango clubs in downtown Buenos Aires, where crowded floors prevent elaborate movements, hence its nickname, "estilo del centro" or downtown style. The milonguero style prioritizes embrace and feelings.

On the other hand, dancers who are movement-oriented tend to focus on steps and action. These dancers, many are also milongueros, developed the Villa Urquiza style of tango—also known as the salón style—which is danced in a loose embrace with an upright posture to facilitate stylish movements. These action-oriented dancers like to dance at neighborhood clubs, such as Club Sin Rumbo in Villa Urquiza, where open dance floors allow for elaborate movement, hence the term "estilo del barrio" or neighborhood style. The Villa Urquiza style prioritizes footwork and impression.

The Milonguero style and the Villa Urquiza style are commonly recognized as tango de salón, or social tango. Social tango is a loose term—broad enough to encompass stylistic differences yet narrow enough to exclude anti-social behaviors. Social dancers may be feeling-oriented or movement-oriented, but they all dance at clubs and abide by the milonga codes.

Social tango dominated Buenos Aires' culture from the mid-1930s to the mid-1950s, a period known as tango’s Golden Age. Between 1940 and 1950, some 23 dancers—who were even more movement-oriented than their Villa Urquiza colleagues—met regularly at Club Nelson to develop novel steps. The result is a new style known as tango fantasia. The names of these 23 dancers are listed in Robert Farris Thompson's book, Tango, the Art History of Love. Danced mainly in an open embrace, tango fantasia dramatized tango with flashy movements and elaborate choreography, and distinguishes itself from improvisational social tango by employing rehearsal and not conforming to the milonga codes. The purpose of this style is stage performance; therefore, it is also known as stage tango, show tango, performance tango, and exhibition tango (see Social Tango and Performance Tango).

From 1955 to 1983, Argentina was ruled by military juntas whose policies discouraged social tango. Curfews were enforced, and pedestrians were frequently stopped by the military police. Many were arrested or simply disappeared for association with the previous, pro-tango regime. As a result, people stopped dancing socially, and tango went underground. The absence of social tango during this period gave tango fantasia an opportunity to take the stage. When military rule ended in 1983, it was this style that led to the revival of tango (see Tango: Historical and Cultural Impacts).

The renaissance was led by a group of stage performers who brought their show, Tango Argentino, to Paris and New York City in 1983 and 1984, where they ignited enthusiasm for their style of tango. Seizing the business opportunity, these professional dancers began teaching tango fantasia to Europeans and Americans, thus spawning the tango Nuevo movement that catered to foreign tastes. Because tango Nuevo incorporated many non-tango elements, such as exotic music and eccentric steps, it ceased to be the tango in its original sense. For this reason, milongueros despise it and call it "tango para exportar," or tango for export. (See Three Theories on Leading.)

Tango – The Art of Love

One of the unspoken protocols in tango is to avoid blaming, criticizing, or advising your dance partner—unless that role has been explicitly entrusted to you. Milongueros adhere strictly to this code because they understand its importance. Recently, two of my students had a serious falling-out. What began—perhaps with good intentions—quickly spiraled out of control: she made a comment about his leading, and he responded with a remark about her following. Words escalated into insults, and the result was two broken hearts. They may never dance together again.

Learning tango is much like learning a language: it demands time, patience, and dedication. Dancers with fewer than five years of experience are still considered novices. These beginners often feel the most frustration. They long to dance well, yet they’re unsure how to get there. There's so much still to learn, including the etiquette of the milonga. Each novice faces unique challenges and carries opinions about others, yet seasoned dancers often avoid partnering with them. As a result, novices tend to remain within their own circle, where frustrations can turn into mutual blame. Ironically, the faults they see in each other are often reflections of their own struggles. When one accuses the other of stiffness, the feeling is likely mutual. And by the time they’ve finally mastered the steps, hurt feelings and strained relationships may linger.

What many beginners fail to realize is that, whether they like it or not, the people they learn tango with often become the most significant figures in their tango journey. In most cities, the tango community is small, and these early companions may be dance partners for years to come (see 惜缘 – Cherishing the Connection of Fate). It is wiser, then, to accept one another and allow space for mutual growth. In life, when we like someone, we offer compliments. If we tell someone they’re unattractive, chances are they won’t want to see us again. The same principle applies in tango. If you want to dance with someone, always speak positively about their dancing—even when they ask for honesty. How many spouses have gotten into trouble by offering too much honesty? Tango, after all, is not just a dance—it is a relationship, thus the art of love (see Tango Is a Relationship).

Robert Farris Thompson wrote in his book, Tango, the Art History of Love, that tango “is the dance that teaches the world to love.” The idea of tango is to welcome another person into your personal space—to accept them, be considerate, cooperative, yielding, and accommodating; to surrender and become one; to listen deeply to their unspoken emotions; to share intimacy; and to bring them love, joy, and contentment. This is a stark contrast to the values dominant in our modern culture: individualism, independence, self-interest, and aggression. Hopefully, tango will make us a better person who treats others with respect, appreciation and love, accept them as who they are, and put others instead of oneself at the center of one's life and dance. Until then, we are not qualified as tango dancers and cannot dance tango well anyway (see A Dance that Teaches People to Love).