Through Harold’s Lens:

Little five-year old boy dreams
Dad put him up to that.

Afternoons with Dad
Holding hands
Climbing onto the big bus
Packed with fanatical fans.

Hip to hip
Bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Argentina’s famous stadium
La Bombonera.

The most successful
soccer team in the world
Famous Boca Juniors.

Legends played here.

Rough game
Hated arch rival

Gold Medal
Final game
World Cup
World Champion.

Pound drums
Passion explodes.

Toilet paper
Across heads.

Score tied.

Minute to play

End of field.

Little boy
Drills ball

Slow motion
White arch through air
Wind screams
Hearts stop
Mouths hang open.

Top left
Open net

Yellow-blue jersey
Retired that day.

Boca Juniors Museum Hall of Fame.

One grain of sand at a time.

Thanks Dad.

Poet Inspired By Spicy Tango Photographs


Through Harold’s Lens:

Through Harold’s Lens is moved to discover that our photographic series, Sensuality of the Tango, provided deep inspiration to a poet from India, Jensy George, to create Lady in Red, a passionate 3-part poem of love, dance and revenge.

Going by the rapier blog handle, The Girl with the Scorpion Tattoo, the Sensuality of the Tango helped give Jensy the vision to unleash a powerful portfolio of words beautifully woven into a deep carpet of emotion, romance and intrigue. The Devil, fangs, red stilettos, seduction… it’s all there.

“An erupting Mt. Vesuvius of the heart and loins. I perspired as I read Lady in Red, said photographer Harold Green. “Her twist at the end was brilliant”.

“As a photographer, one of of my goals is to try to emotionally engage a viewer with my images”, said Harold. “When that happens, bells sound in my heart. A switch is flipped. An electrical connection is made. A person’s heart, mind or soul has been touched”.

Through Harold’s Lens also thanks everyone whose hearts were stirred, panting with passion, from the multi-photo series, Sensuality of the Tango .

“I Had To Change”


Please start the music first, as you are enjoying the images and words.
You will receive the full sensual experience of this story.

Through Harold’s Lens:

As Eva says, “It won’t be easy”.

Our dance through this Latin culture has come to an end.

But, discovery of more of our vast, rich world continues.

I hope you have enjoyed our jaunt into the fun, quirky, magical South American city of Buenos Aires.

Dancing shoes… high heel sneakers… splashes of color… deep passion… cold beer… dancing the tango.

We met many characters in a play called “Life”.

You experienced and met up close and personal:

Wild artists.… Sexy scents of women.… Hot Latin men with hip-hugging tango passions… Lush women who embrace.… Walls that talk.… Mad wives. … Slinky models molded with curves.… Hustling salesmen.… Freezing old Gauchos.… Wives that give permission.… Testosterone laden polo players.… Beautiful strolling women.… Nudes wrapped in the woods.… Personal notes to men. … Rowdy raucous football fans.… Terrors in the night.… Stunning women who go incognito.… Dramatic deaths on the big stage.… A talking Nikon camera.… Love and passion on the tango dance floor.

Did you join Through Harold’s Lens’ caravan in mid journey?

See what you missed. Fun. A bit lusty. Perky. Wild. Weird.

Through Harold’s Lens is packing his gear bag.

Time for another country. Another culture.

Thank you for all of your “Likes”, your “Comments”, our tete-a-tete and your enjoyment of what I am trying to do.

“I love you, and hope you love me”

“#6 Sensuality Of The Tango ”


Through Harold’s Lens:

Let go
Be one with your partner
Let blazing flames rise slowly
As you dance tightly embraced
With the one you love.

Argentina: “Sensuality Of The Tango-1”


Through Harold’s Lens:

“Oh Harold, stop pushing”, my Nikon D300s camera squealed.

Click. Click. Click.

“Your soft hand is gripping me so hard”, my 70-200mm telephoto lens soothed.

Click. Click. Click.

“Are you taking secret photographs of me”, my LCD screen hollered.

Click. Click. Click.

“I’m really pissed. I get no action” screamed my Nikon D80 camera from inside my gear bag.

Click. Click. Click.

That feels so, so good”, purred my Gitzo GT 2540 tripod as the smooth, oiled legs extended.

Click. Click. Click.

“Tight fit, my man”, growled my 4GB Compact Flash Card.

Click. Click. Click.

“Please release me forever”, my Really Right Stuff Ballhead swooned.

Click. Click. Click.

“Faster. Faster. Faster”, my frames per second howled.

Minds wander deeply
Bury into the soul.

Watching the explosive sensuality of the tango.


Through Harold’s Lens:

Please start the music first as you are enjoying the image and words. You will receive the full sensual experience of this story.

Opera La Boheme. Act 4. Finale.

Oh Mimi will you never return
Oh, beautiful days, tiny hands
the fragrance of your tresses…
…your snow white neck!

Mimi-(With great passion)

Rodolfo-(Carefully, helping Mimi onto a bed)
Hush now, rest.

Mimi-(Holding Rodolfo in her arms)
Oh, my Rodolfo!
May I stay here with you?

Ah! my dearest Mimi,
always, always!

(Gently Rodolfo persuades Mimi to lie down on the bed and covers her with a blanket Then with great care slips a pillow under Mimi’s head)

Heavenly lips,
still you speak to me!

It’s just a little cough!
I’m used to it.

Rest now.

You won’t leave me?

No! No!

(Mimi open her eyes, stretches her hand out towards Rodolfo, then kisses him lovingly. Mimi puts her arms around Rodolfo’s neck)
Your are my entire life, you are my love.

Ah, Mimi,
my beautiful Mimi!

(She lets herself fall into his arms)
Do you still find me beautiful?

As lovely as the dawn.

(Mimi has a sudden spasm of coughing, she falls back with exhaustion)

(Alarmed, Rodolfo gently supports Mimi)
Oh God! Mimi!
(Rodolfo carefully lays Mimi down on the pillow)

I’m here… my love… always with you!
My hands… in the warm… and… to sleep

(Rodolfo dashes to Mimi’s bedside, scoops her up in his arms crying out in extreme desperation)
Mimì!… Mimì!..


Puccini’s Italian opera La Boheme is one of the most frequently performed operas in the world.

As I quietly strolled La Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, I was reminded of the sad, passionate finale of the two lovers Rodolfo and Mimi. And, my tear-filled evening at the New York City Opera watching my Tenor Nephew Barton Green play the lead role of Rodolfo.

“One Shade Of Grey”

Through Harold’s Lens:

You don’t know her.

I do!


Sophie casually waited to dance
Tango music moving her spirit
Swaying to the sounds of the rhythm.

Sophie loves to dance
By herself
With a man
With a woman.
Waiting to be asked.

But not for the reason the other women were waiting.

Other women wanted a fantasy.

They wanted young
Chiseled face
Piercing eyes

Shirt buttons open to six pack abs
Matted intertwined black curls to the navel
Her braless breast pressed against his chest
His pants skin tight
Firm thigh surging between her hot, quivering legs

Ecstasy slowly slithering its way up against her warm, twitching belly.

Sophie just wanted to feel her inner passion.

The freedom of dancing.

The flowing.

Sophie could dance to the news.

You feel inner passion.

The keyboard of your desk
Your fingers rhythmically listening
A musical favorite.

The freedom of letting go
The spirt rising
The release.

Doing what you love
Doing what you really feel.

Deep down inside.

Your inner core talking.

Your inner passion.

“Angry Protest”


Through Harold’s Lens:

“Get out now!”
“Get out now!”
“Get out now!”

Saturday morning
Roaring rhythm
Angry, swelling crowd screaming.

“Get out now!”

Crowd storms down chic street
Upmarket Buenos Aires neighborhood of Palermo. Palermo Chico.

“Get out now!”

Stretching from curb to curb
Parking meter to parking meter.

“Get out now!”

Hundreds of signs
Mean words
Hastily scribbled
Red and black ink
Hands gripping long wooden sticks.

“Get out now!”

Surging crowd overflowing onto beautifully landscaped yards.

“We live here!”.
“Get out now!”

It happened overnight
Hunkered in.

Big colored booths
Loud colors
Flashing lights
Peddlers hawking wares.

Cheap merchandise
Loud music
Stinky greasy food cooking
Stretching for five blocks.

“Get out now!”

Police arrive
No licenses
Vendors out.

Three hours later
All calm
Trash wrappers litter lawns
Protest signs in trash cans
Neighbors once again gossiping.

Peace returns to the valley.


ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
Pounding noise awakens me
Old weathered garage wall shakes
Boy is only a dozen years old
He’s working between the studs.


Dad’s big, heavy hammer
Among two family cars.

Bang Bang. Bang. Pause.
There’s hundreds of them
All four walls
Floor to ceiling.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Why does he do that?”
“Collect those old hammered metal license plates?”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Is it the crazy names and numbers”?
BJ 777

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Does he want names from the 48”?
New York
Rhode Island
South Carolina

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Maybe he’s collecting special old years”?

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“That must be it”
“My brother Chip Green likes old things

He has a deep passion
Old cars
Iron resting on rubber
Classic look

A rusted old hand painted license plate from Buenos Aires rekindles another memory from when I was 10-years old.


ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

The 2nd Hole Was Murder!!

Long par 4
Dog leg left
Lush green fairway
Long steep hill
Mountain capped by an area for putting.

The little boy was only ten
Nickname: Metty
Tiger of a tyke
Sixty-five pounds
Soaking wet
A four-foot runt.

Dad’s golf bag weighed thirty-one pounds
Stood three feet tall.

Lugging the golf bag up the 2nd hole
Murder by iron and leather.

Barely lift it
Sling it forward
Dump it down

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Dad said the bag built character
The small whippersnapper swore quietly
Older brother Chip had taught him the words
The older brother had schlepped the bag up the 2nd hole too
Now the torch was passed.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

All day
6,262 yards
The little nipper humped Dad’s golf bag around the golf course
Week after week
Month after month
For two years.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Sweat dripped into eyes
Muscles roared with pain.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Soon, Dad’s male golf tradition was passed
Younger brother Bart
Another runt.

Bart renamed the 2nd hole
“The Bastard”.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Meanwhile, the shaveling Metty took up other sports
He retired
Other sports are part of his life
Remembers times with Dad
He now plays golf
Character was built.

I saw this old, heavy, sagging leather golf bag in Buenos Aires. It tweaked memories of the great times I had on the 2nd hole, at the Owasco Country Club in Auburn, New York, as I caddied for my Dad.

“Mr. Original”

Receive the full sensual experience of this Post on Through Harold’s Lens. Play the music as you are enjoying the images and words.

ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

They were stopped
Eyes glued to an mysterious old brown, wooden box
Young family of four wandering the antique market
My lens watched.

“Is that an old music box?”, the 12-year old boy asks his Dad
Raises iPhone at arms length and silently takes a photo
“Google it on your Mac”, says Dad.

The 10-year old sister
grasps Blackberry
Remembers old collection of love songs that Mom had saved since she was a teenager
Music was on something called a cassette
Mom cried as she tried to untangle the pile of crinkled tan tape covering her garage floor.

Dad suddenly remembers
Stack of used 8-tracks
Stuffed in sagging cabinet
His untidy study.

“I remember your Grandma
Had large black discs with small holes”, Mom says
Big cardboard covers
Lots of songs on them
She called them 33’s.

“Oh yeah”, Dad says.
“Remember Grandpa’s stacks small black discs with big holes in them?”
I played frisbee with them.
The labels said 45 rpm.

“I sure wish your Great Grandpa was here”, Mom says
He played a tenor saxophone in a jazz band at Princeton
He had blacks discs with small holes that went ‘round and ‘round real fast
Called em 78‘s
He played songs by Paul Whiteman and Bix Beiderbecke
The music was scratchy.

“I was a little boy at your Great, Great Grandpa’s house”, Dad says
Old, wooden music box like this one in the corner of their living room
Crank on it
Faded old black and white photograph of them sat on top of the music box
They were young
They were dressed up
They were dancing
Great Great Grandma was wearing a short dress with fringe on the bottom
She looked like she was hopping around
Her legs were bent like twigs at the knees”

With a sprinkling of grey hair, I raised my Nikon
With slumping shoulders, this aging photographer slowly slinked into the shadows of Buenos Aires.

“Dressing Down”

ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

My head spun a Charlie McCarthy 360!

Gorgeous face. My Nikon searched for my left eye.

Click. Click. Click.

She whisked by me dressed down in old Bohemian fabrics.

Click. Click. Click.

Her moving red lips said “Thank you”.

I could not resist. “You are so beautiful you should be a model in the Buenos Aires Fashion Week”.

“I am one of the Fashion Week models”, she whispered.

With curiosity I asked “Why are you dressed so casually, so Bohemian?” “I’m trying to be incognito in Buenos Aires. These Latin men are, let’s just say, a bit assertive”. At the fashion shows in Paris, New York and Milan, the men give us some distance”.

A new experience for me. Wrapping your body in fabrics is an art onto itself. Wrapping yourself to decrease attention? It didn’t work with me! My Nikon captured her.

“Call of Terror”

Receive the full sensual experience of this Post on Through Harold’s Lens. Play the music as you are enjoying the images and words.

ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

Auburn, New York
4:12 am.
January 9, 1955.

The brass ringer bell on our rotary phone screams and screams and screams outside my bedroom door.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I’m in deep sleep.

Ring. Ring Ring.

I am only 14.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Old enough to know only bad comes with a call in the black of night.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I’m into horror movies.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I am terrified.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Slapping bare feet rip down the wooden hallway.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Total silence.

A mind-piercing scream rips through my bedroom door. I leap from my sheets. I tear open my door. I’m face to face with my Mother. Wracking in tears. Sucking for air. Eyes wide with terror.

“Maudie”, Mom gasps. The hospital. Her five-month old daughter. Dead. I wrap my arms around Mom’s heaving, sagging shoulders. Mom and I cry.

Please Lord. There is an order to birth. An order to death. Our children are not to die first.

A jet black old rotary in an antique store in Buenos Aires evokes a 50 year old painful memory of an ice cold January morning in upstate New York and the value of life.

“Rowdy Old Bottle Bar”

ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

The joint’s been quiet for 3 hours.

Exit was an inebriated mass.

Sloshes of beer lay soaked in mops
Old oak tables upturned
Broken chairs stacked in trash cans
Sharp broken glass swept into dust pans
Whift of rancid sweat hung in the corners
The stink of warm booze hung everywhere.

14 large screen tv’s
All black.

Boca Juniors victory in futbol
Only matched by its raucous fans.

As Argentina’s most internationally famous professional team, the team’s fame is matched by its rowdy fans. At La Bombonera stadium these crazy Boca Fans are nicknamed La Doce. The 12th player because of their loud and distracting presence.

The large fan base of these hooligans number 60,000+. There are only 49,000 seats in the famed La Bombonera stadium.

On game day, thousands of energetic La Doce pour into bars. The bars pour back. Chants echo off walls. Drums pound. Flags wave. Packed bars going bananas.

It’s Boca Juniors game day!