Tango, Memory, and a Whisper of Cinema on the Upper East Side

A night at the Hungarian House, and a quiet reunion with the filmmaking past

Mandy and Jenny performing at Pro-Am All Night Milonga

There are nights when New York feels less like a city and more like a quiet nod from the past - when time folds in on itself, and the flick of a dress or the bow of a cello brings you back to something half-remembered.

It was Saturday night on the Upper East Side. The Hungarian House—a beautiful, faded gem tucked into a brownstone on East 82nd Street—was full. Of dancers, yes, but also of rhythm, elegance, and something harder to name: a kind of breathless attention. They called it All-Night Milonga, and that’s exactly what it was—velvet shoes on parquet floors, long skirts brushing the ankles, the music of Buenos Aires spilling into wood-paneled walls that had seen decades of stories.

I wasn’t there to photograph the entire event. I was hired to follow just one pair: Mandy, a professional tango dancer, and her student Jenny—graceful, serious, electric.

The room pulsed with cameras—photographers, videographers, equipment blinking in the dark like fireflies. But one lens stood apart. Or rather, the eye behind it did.

My dear friend Kay was in the room.

We met fifteen years ago, in my filmmaking days. She’s not just a cinematographer—she is, in the true sense of the word, a visual poet. Kay studied at AFI, shot on real sets with real pressure, real chaos, and real beauty. She now teaches cinematography at the School of Visual Arts and still works as a DP on serious films. And when Mandy asked me if I knew any videographers for the event, I said no. Because truly—I don’t. I know cinematographers. But my mind immediately went to Kay. I thought, at best, she might send a student. I never expected her to take the job herself.

But Kay showed up. With vision. With grace. With intention.

And when she started filming, it was as if the space around her shifted. She wasn’t there to “cover” an event. She was making a documentary. I saw her tracking light with her eyes before she moved the camera. I saw how gently she floated through the room, not capturing the moment, but weaving with it. No rush, no clutter, no wide-eyed hunting. Just presence. Just trust.

I found myself drawn toward her, as if the air around her carried something familiar. I watched her monitor. I held my breath. I remembered what it felt like to be on set—directing actors, building mis-en-scène, whispering to my DP about the next shot, the curve of the light, the silence between gestures. That world never really left me. But that night, I felt it again.

And something clicked.

I had come to photograph a dance—and I did. Mandy and Jenny were luminous, grounded and alive, moving not just with technique but with story. And somewhere between the dancing, the shutter, and Kay’s quiet camera, I realized I was witnessing more than tango. I was witnessing a kind of homecoming. For them. For me.

That night, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. A quiet joy. Not just from photographing the dance, but from sensing the old world stirring again—the one where stories were built shot by shot, scene by scene, shoulder to shoulder with someone who knew.

I went home happy, the good kind of tired. Not because I’d captured every move on the dance floor, but because, just for a moment, the filmmaking spirit came back—framed by tango, lit by memory.