Andy Torres: A Tribute to My Mentor and Friend by Michael Cornell

Growing up as an artistic, curious young boy in the Midwest, I was always aware there was a much bigger world out there—waiting to be explored. I also knew, instinctively, that I was a little different. For kids like me, mentors matter. Male mentors who see your uniqueness and encourage it can change the course of your life. I was lucky to find them.

One of my earliest mentors was my seventh-grade art teacher, Dede, who I’m still in contact with today. She once told me, “I don’t know if you were a good student—I didn’t teach academics—but you were incredibly creative.” Dede supported my artistic side completely. In fact, she insisted I draw black-and-white portraits of Mikhail Baryshnikov. It was the first time I had ever been exposed to a dancer’s image—and I was hooked. That single experience inspired me to begin studying ballet.

My passion led me to a local studio, and eventually to The National Academy of the Arts in Champaign, Illinois—a school unlike anything I had ever known. It was filled with instructors from the Royal Ballet, American Ballet Theatre, the Joffrey, Paris Opera, and National Ballet of Cuba. At 16, I felt as though I had stepped into an entirely new cultural reality.

Our training was rigorous, with classical ballet at its core, but modern and jazz were mandatory. That’s where I met my second great mentor: Andy Torres.

Andy was our jazz teacher, and he became one of the most important figures in my life. He wasn’t the kind of mentor most Midwestern parents would expect for their teenage son—but mine had no objections. My mother, in fact, adored him. It was the early 1980s, and I had the rare gift of spending unsupervised time with a gay, African-Puerto Rican man from New York City. I loved every minute of it.

Andy’s life couldn’t have been more different from mine. He had spent more than a decade performing on Broadway in shows like The Wiz, Your Arms Too Short to Box with God, and For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf. He was in the all-Black cast of Guys and Dolls, and even had a cameo in the cult film 1990: The Bronx Warriors. His résumé reads like a tour of 1970s Black theater history.

This post is meant to honor Andy—and to reflect on how far we’ve come as a society, and how far we still have to go. As a teen in the 1980s, I felt like the world was opening up. The civil rights movements of the ’60s seemed to be bearing fruit. People of color, queer people, outsiders of all kinds—were gaining space in the culture. Andy embodied that progress. But in many ways, I worry we’re now moving in the wrong direction.

At Align Ballet Method, I’ve tried to create an open, inclusive space for anyone who wants to study classical ballet. That mission is rooted in my relationship with Andy Torres. His mentorship shaped not just my dancing—but my entire worldview.

Lessons from Andy

1. Minimalism
The first time I visited Andy’s apartment in 1983, on 86th Street between Columbus and Central Park West, I was stunned. It was a gorgeous prewar unit with hardwood floors, high ceilings—and virtually no furniture. A mattress on the floor. A small table with two chairs. A mint set of Fiesta Ware dishes. That was it.

Andy had once collected antiques and furs, but he’d grown tired of the pretense. He sold it all. He was the first true minimalist I’d ever met. And it made an impression. I grew up in a comfortable but conventional Ohio household. Andy showed me that happiness wasn’t found in stuff—it was found in self-expression, simplicity, and freedom.

He shopped secondhand. He mixed army fatigues with Hawaiian shirts. He called it “f*** you fashion.” He was hilarious, stylish, and deeply philosophical. That creative frugality? It stuck with me—and it’s been fundamental to my survival as an artist and entrepreneur.

2. Brutal Honesty
Andy never sugarcoated anything. He was openly gay and completely unfiltered. He spoke with clarity, humor, and honesty about life, sex, relationships, and the complexities of identity. There’s a harmful myth in this country that suggests gay adults “groom” children just by existing around them. In my experience, nothing could be further from the truth.

If that myth were true, I’d be the most “well-groomed” man in America—I was raised by gay men in the dance world—and I still turned out straight. What I did gain was a deep respect for authenticity, and a clear understanding of human boundaries, vulnerability, and courage. Andy’s honesty taught me about self-awareness and emotional intelligence.

3. Culture and Belief
Andy told me stories of the early early days of disco —The Loft, The Garage, and voguing competitions before Madonna ever popularized them. I asked him to explain what voguing was, he said: “It’s a dance contest where men dress like supermodels and pretend like they’re in a fashion photo shoot.” I couldn’t wrap my head around it at first—but I was fascinated. I always felt Andy told me how the world truly operated as opposed to some suburban fantasy of how life should be, as brought to us by marketing and advertising. He always provided a perspective deeply rooted in reality. He loves to recount the time he dragged me deep into the housing projects of Harlem to meet his sister who was a Rastafarian. Uniquely, Andy was the first person I knew who studied spirtuality and eastern religious philosophy, also making a great positive impresssion on my world view, always widening my perspective.

Andy also made me believe in myself. At The National Academy of the Arts, I wasn’t the top dancer. Many of my classmates went on to become principal dancers with major companies. But Andy saw something in me that others didn’t. Coming from musical theater, he recognized the versatility I had—and the potential I hadn’t seen in myself.

We’d take long walks around Champaign-Urbana, where he shared stories of New York, Puerto Rico, Broadway, and Europe. He introduced me to the names and talents of legendary Black and Latino artists—people like Michael Peters, who choreographed Thriller and Bad. Andy helped me understand the massive contribution people of color have made to the arts, and the importance of honoring that legacy.

Legacy and Gratitude
Andy later joined the prestigious Liz Lerman Dance Exchange in Washington, D.C., recruited by the MacArthur Genius herself. He was also a veteran of the U.S. military and a founding member of the legendary Philadanco Dance Company.

He is a true American original.

At 84, Andy Torres is still here—and I hope he stays with us a long time. He made me who I am. He shaped my values. He gave me the courage to dream, to dance, to lead a creative life with integrity. I owe him more than I can say.

Thank you, Andy.