Our last full day in Madrid was winding down and despite all the fascinating things we did, saw, ate, sometimes all at once, the day was dedicated to the spectacle of bullfighting. It’s a curious thing for me; I thought I wouldn’t have been able to stomach it. When it actually came around, I found myself strangely desensitized, openly witnessing the matador’s melee. The two bottles of succulent red wine we consumed on a street corner before entering the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas could be to blame. Or my steel heart. Whichever.
Three rounds, three matadors, six bulls, a band of picadors and banderilleros is what makes up a regular day’s “corrida.” Watching a centuries old cultural ritual was absorbing. There is something very graceful about the way the matadors move, how they entice the bull, but I feel like it’s an unfair fight from the get go. The bull comes out, round one, spear in shoulders, already debilitated. Round two, the bull’s going for the largest, most imposing moving thing (a.k.a. the picadors) and is inevitably lanced clear between the shoulders, then the banderilleros jab adorned sticks into the bull’s back. Round three rolls around and of course that matador’s going to get a giant sword between the shoulder blades. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a ballsy move to stab a bull; hell, I wouldn’t do it, but! If you’re going to fight a bull, fight a bull.
It is very possible that we attended the arena at a time when novilleros, basically newbs, were taking the stage. Most of Spain, if not the Iberian Peninsula and beyond, were on holiday for the month of August. The stadium was three quarters empty. Supposedly, if the bull does really well, they let it live. We thought a couple were in those ranks. We were rooting for the bull. Six times, no dice.
Your first photo is really great, the shadow makes is so strong!
Great work!
Great series. Colorful, concise and clear. Superb storytelling.