Friday, May 22nd, 2009
They come dressed in their casual finery. Dresses and neatly stitched cardigans for the ladies. Striped shirts, panama hats and jumpers draped over shoulders for the gents. A Sea of Sartorial Politeness. Everyone waits patiently to be shown to their seats, and those already in their places delicately eat exotic nuts and sophisticated sandwiches from silver foil.
The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.
And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.
Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.
I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.
Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.
The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.
This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.
The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?
Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.
The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.
And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.
Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.
I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.
Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.
The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.
This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.
The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?
Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.
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