by Cathy
"Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor."
“There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”
"Bullfighting is not a sport; it is a tragedy."
-- Ernest Hemingway
The above three quotes are all attributed to Ernest Hemingway. He refers to bullfighting as an art, a sport and a tragedy, respectively. For the purposes of this post, I'll take the unbiased, middle ground and refer to it as a sport. For me, bullfighting has always been synonymous with Hemingway. He made his love of Spain and Cuba evident via his novels, but specifically first brought attention to bullfighting in his novel, The Sun Also Rises.
While on vacation this past summer in Mexico, our trip coincided with a bullfighting tour. For years my husband had tried to time our visit to Mexico for this, but it wasn't to be the case until now. He eagerly, happily, excitedly plunked down his pesos and got tickets for our entire family to attend.
I hadn't given specific thought to bullfighting. I just knew it involved a matador (or torero, as they chanted in the arena), a bull and a fight between the two, which may or may not result in the death of a bull.
The fights we saw were held in an all-season arena, in the evening, so there was no sun/shade seating to be chosen. The Plaza D' Toros was not an overly intimidating arena but there was a foreboding light within its walls and the faint smell of metal and animals. Interesting Fact: Bullfighting arenas are always round so as not to give the bull an opportunity to corner the fighters.
The performance began with a welcoming parade; basically a two-horse buggy where the horses have elaborate headpieces and the buggy holds two young, beautiful girls waving to the audience as this chariot makes a few laps around the arena. Obviously, geared towards a male audience, although the audience boasted a healthy female attendance. The two women seated behind us were louder and more demanding than most of the male spectators.
The bullfighters enter the ring to the sound of a live marching type band and gracefully yet firmly walk over to the side of the arena with the President's balcony. They are colorfully and elaborately dressed in their heavily embroidered capes, black hats and flamboyant garb of a unitard and a bolero jacket. They raise their hats in a salute to the President and the crowd. The arena empties, the band stops playing and there is an eerie silence. All eyes are on the huge, wooden, bolted door that leads to the bullpen.
In the midst of the dead silence, the sound of running hooves is heard before the door swings open and we see a 1,000+ pound bull charge blindly and ferociously into the arena. It's oddly quick for its hefty size. The expert spectator sitting in front of us, upon learning that this was our first bullfight, was more than eager to explain to us the process, the meanings, the traditions and reassure the children to not be afraid. This was a welcomed comfort for us. "These bulls are bred to be vicious," he explained as he watched my girls' faces. "They are bred to be fast, strong and to kill."
The first fight was with a bullfighter on horseback. I will spare you the details of this, but all I can say is that he did such a terrible job, he broke down in tears afterwards due to the dishonor he brought forth to the sport, got booed by the audience and left us traumatized. I was this close to taking the kids and leaving. Our fellow spectator guide explained: "This is not the way this should be done. For bulls to be killed in the ring, it should be an honor. He dishonored this bull by killing it the way he did. It should be clean, effortless and honorable." Let's leave it at that.
The remaining fights were with the traditional matadors. Watching these, when done right, I understood what our guide was trying to explain. Much like witnessing the proverbial car accident, at times I found myself not wanting to look away.
I realized that during each fight, I would go through a whirlwind of emotions - at first rooting for the matador when the bull charged out with such might that he could easily gore anyone in its path; then twinges of nervousness and sadness when the bull was weakened by the banderilleros as they pierced darts into the bull's spine; then mesmerized by the "dance" between the matador and the bull - my favorite part - whereby the matador "dances" with the bull, standing within inches of it as it charges into the muleta, or cape. One matador bravely "hugged" the backside of the bull as it twisted and turned in circles around him. It was a beautiful, artful display of man versus beast, this dance with the flowing red cloths and the matadors standing steadfast, poised like a ballet dancer, yet leaning in towards the bull, feet firmly grounded like an athlete.
Lest we forget, bullfighting is an extremely dangerous sport. We almost witnessed the death of a young matador-in-training during our event when his nervousness caused him to trip and fall backward, causing the bull to charge directly into his torso. Were it not for protectively padded horses and the banderilleros coming to his aide, he could have died. That is the point when I realized that this is real. That this was more than a sport. That anything can happen. That we can be witness to someone's death.
This is why the final act of the killing of the bull left me conflicted: it's kill or be killed. It's just a shame that it even needs to come down to this. But therein, my friends, lies the controversy of bullfighting in general. Interesting Fact: Banderilleros can only lance the bull head-on and a bullfighter can only kill the bull directly from the front. Depending on how honorable the kill is, the President decides the prize for the matador, usually in the form of one or two ears from the killed bull.
The bullfighters enter the ring to the sound of a live marching type band and gracefully yet firmly walk over to the side of the arena with the President's balcony. They are colorfully and elaborately dressed in their heavily embroidered capes, black hats and flamboyant garb of a unitard and a bolero jacket. They raise their hats in a salute to the President and the crowd. The arena empties, the band stops playing and there is an eerie silence. All eyes are on the huge, wooden, bolted door that leads to the bullpen.
In the midst of the dead silence, the sound of running hooves is heard before the door swings open and we see a 1,000+ pound bull charge blindly and ferociously into the arena. It's oddly quick for its hefty size. The expert spectator sitting in front of us, upon learning that this was our first bullfight, was more than eager to explain to us the process, the meanings, the traditions and reassure the children to not be afraid. This was a welcomed comfort for us. "These bulls are bred to be vicious," he explained as he watched my girls' faces. "They are bred to be fast, strong and to kill."
The first fight was with a bullfighter on horseback. I will spare you the details of this, but all I can say is that he did such a terrible job, he broke down in tears afterwards due to the dishonor he brought forth to the sport, got booed by the audience and left us traumatized. I was this close to taking the kids and leaving. Our fellow spectator guide explained: "This is not the way this should be done. For bulls to be killed in the ring, it should be an honor. He dishonored this bull by killing it the way he did. It should be clean, effortless and honorable." Let's leave it at that.
The remaining fights were with the traditional matadors. Watching these, when done right, I understood what our guide was trying to explain. Much like witnessing the proverbial car accident, at times I found myself not wanting to look away.
I realized that during each fight, I would go through a whirlwind of emotions - at first rooting for the matador when the bull charged out with such might that he could easily gore anyone in its path; then twinges of nervousness and sadness when the bull was weakened by the banderilleros as they pierced darts into the bull's spine; then mesmerized by the "dance" between the matador and the bull - my favorite part - whereby the matador "dances" with the bull, standing within inches of it as it charges into the muleta, or cape. One matador bravely "hugged" the backside of the bull as it twisted and turned in circles around him. It was a beautiful, artful display of man versus beast, this dance with the flowing red cloths and the matadors standing steadfast, poised like a ballet dancer, yet leaning in towards the bull, feet firmly grounded like an athlete.
Lest we forget, bullfighting is an extremely dangerous sport. We almost witnessed the death of a young matador-in-training during our event when his nervousness caused him to trip and fall backward, causing the bull to charge directly into his torso. Were it not for protectively padded horses and the banderilleros coming to his aide, he could have died. That is the point when I realized that this is real. That this was more than a sport. That anything can happen. That we can be witness to someone's death.
This is why the final act of the killing of the bull left me conflicted: it's kill or be killed. It's just a shame that it even needs to come down to this. But therein, my friends, lies the controversy of bullfighting in general. Interesting Fact: Banderilleros can only lance the bull head-on and a bullfighter can only kill the bull directly from the front. Depending on how honorable the kill is, the President decides the prize for the matador, usually in the form of one or two ears from the killed bull.
"I am not going to apologize for bullfighting. It is a survival of the days of the Roman Colosseum. But it does need some explanation. [Bullfighting] is a tragedy. A very great tragedy. The tragedy is the death of the bull. It is played in three definite acts. The entry...the planting of the banderillos...[and the mastering of the bull with the muleta which leads to the death of the bull.]"
- excerpted from the Toronto Star Weekly, columns by Ernest Hemingway, 1923
As I thought about what I had seen that night, I couldn't help but recall Jack Nicholson's famous line as Joker in the 1989 movie, Batman, asked by him of all his prey, right before killing them:
"Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
Some prefer to call this a blood sport; others call it an art. There are many advocates and critics of this sport alike, for obvious, respective reasons.
It's the fight fought since the beginning of time itself: man versus beast. I will leave it up to you to determine who's the devil in this delicate dance.
Bullfighting
is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which
the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's
honor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99
Bullfighting
is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which
the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's
honor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99
