ESSAYS
The Confusion of RedBROOKVILLE, OH 28 May 2008 |
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MADRID, SPAIN
When I lived in Segovia, Spain in 1993 on a study abroad program, I saw my first bullfight.
I was 20 and full of post-teen angst and mid-college confusion, sympathetic to all underdogs in the world, including bulls.
I remember being nauseated by the spectacle: a bull charges into the ring and after 20 minutes is dragged out, punctured, bloodied and lifeless.
Fat Spanish men gnaw on wet cigars and yell vulgarities or praises, depending on the bull and bullfighter.
The bulls rarely stand a chance of surviving a bullfight.
They live their lives of four to five years strolling in lush pastures, mounting as many heifers as they can, eating well and living the life of beastly kings.
The main argument from pro-bullfighting enthusiasts is that this race of bull wouldn't exist if it weren't for the spectacle of bullfighting.
This free-range existence precludes human contact.
Until....
their last day, when they are corralled into the bullring--into a bull pen--and wait in darkness.
Each time one is released they are cattle prodded (bull prodded?) down the dark corridor where they can see the light at the end of the tunnel, literally.
It rushes toward the light.
Beyond is a crowd waiting to cheer and clamor in a crazy cacophony, rooting for its death to be as elegant as possible.
Once in the ring, among the chaos and waving flags, the bull chases whatever moves.
Men dressed in multicolored attire wave their banderas.
A picador on a horse charges at the beast and drives a couple of spikes in its back, further incensing it and multiplying its confusion.
More spikes come, eight in total, and blood streams down its sides.
After 15 or 20 minutes, the bullfighter pulls out the sword and tries to deftly slide it into the precise spot where its spine opens up.
If he's successful, the sword will plunge straight through, piercing the bull's heart.
The bull will stagger and wail.
Blood now drips from its mouth and nose, is painted on its sides and trickles into its eyes.
Two or three men will surround it, wave their red banderas in front of its eyes to keep it disoriented.
The confusion of red.
The anger the bull felt while fighting will be allayed by the waving of a crimson cape until it falls to its knees.
If the bull is not completely dead, a little man in a suit comes up and pulls out a dagger, finds the proper spot in its skull and plunges. This should immediately kill it.
Sometimes they miss the proper spot and the bull screams in the immediacy of the pain and horror that it's life is about to actually end.
Sometimes they have to plunge the dagger two or three more times to make sure it's dead.
The horror.
Then, finally, it throws its head back, hitting the ground, its legs twitching its last movements.
If it was a good kill, they'll cut off an ear and give it to the bullfighter.
The chains are harnessed around one of the bull's legs and horses drag it away to be dismembered for food that people and animals will devour.
****
That was the essence of a poem I wrote at the time.
I was much younger and naive then.
I grew up wanting to be a veterinarian and felt nothing but sympathy and pain for these beautiful, intimidating creatures.
****
The patron saint of Madrid is San Isidro and with this celebration that started two weeks ago, the bullfighting season is in full force.
Every day in the papers or news you see the bullfight report.
Occasionally, you get to see a goring.
We were invited to an uncommon spectacle at Las Ventas - Madrid's famed bullfighting ring.
A Corrida de Rejones is a special bullfight performed by horse riders. The bullfighter is also a skilled horse rider who has to have precise command of the beautiful unprotected horse he's riding while at the same time able to kill the bull with a spike (rejonear).
Wesley, Brandon, Juan and I walked entered a near sold-out bullring.
Three rejoneadores take on two bulls each, in rotation.
The first rejoneador goes first and forth, the second goes fifth and the third--and best--goes third and last, finishing the day around 8 pm.
This day, the first five fights were a mixture of average to above average.
The crowd whistled (the American equivalent of booing) less often than they cheered.
Whatever angst I had felt back in college seeing a bullfight had long disappeared by the sixth fight.
To see a horse and bull charge at each other and the bull come centimeters away from tearing open the horses pristine ribcage was uncomfortable and riveting.
The rejoneador slams a spike into the charging bulls back while simultaneously directing the horrified horse away from harm and then, as the very angry bull chases after the horse, the rider turns around and touches the bull's horns with his hand or his hat.
This was impressive and somehow elegant.
Majestic barbarity.
This final rider perfectly spiked the bull four times without missing.
This infuriated and weakened the bull and piqued the crowd's support for the mobile matador.
The final four spikes were as perfect as the first four.
When the crowd's din lulled, you could hear the bull screaming as it blew out bloody mucous through its nose.
On his first attempt at killing this 600 kilogram bull (1,200+ pounds), a rapid charge between the bull and horse culminated in a perfect spike that left only the handle protruding from the bull's back.
The bull froze.
The crowd shouted a collective, deafening roar.
The rejoneador galloped on the horse around the ring.
The bull swayed.
The rejoneador took off his hat and stopped at various points around the ring, causing the crowd to somehow get even louder.
Little men ornately dressed like bullfighter helpers surrounded the bull with their pink (not red) capes.
But the bull was standing immobile, effectively dead.
It cleanly fell over on its side and vomited several liters of red into the brown dirt.
Brandon, Wes, Juan and I screamed and clapped as loudly as the Spanish mass.
The entire stadium jumped to its feet, cheering the beautiful death of the bull.
The rejoneador continued his stops at various points in front of the crowd.
People threw roses, some women through underwear and a dead chicken's body bounced on the ground.
Apparently a really good performance includes a freshly broken-necked chicken.
Minutes later we filtered out into the streets and found our way to La Vaca Argentina where we feasted on rations of Argentine beef and talked about things unrelated to bullfighting.
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Special thanks goes to Wesley Brown for the great photographs.
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Kip if now officially on a semi-hiatus from posting on TNB while he pursues a Masters degree in Spanish. At best, he will post erratically. His alter ego, Tip Robin, sometimes posts music mashes at Tip Robin's Mega Maxi Mix Mash. The real Kip Tobin can be seen in a recent internet broadcast promoting the best tortilla in Madrid. He hopes that peak oil is not happening, but think it might be. Good luck.
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12 Comments »
Comment by Josie |Edit This
2008-05-28 07:45:52
I’ve been involved in every aspect of a bovine’s life from birth to bullet, from butcher’s wrap to BBQ.
But even then I could never tolerate the cruelty factor of a bullfight/bullslaughter.
To me it is no different than the first image you posted. Which makes a powerful statement to the whole ordeal. Life is lost - nay, it is taken in a long torturous celebration and that is just not fun and games in my book.
What’s more troubling in this piece is how easily a place can sway a person from one perspective to another.
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Comment by pb |Edit This
2008-05-28 15:06:50
I so look forward to your posts as a person who lived in Spain for a year (in high school) and now travel back as much as possible.
When I lived there, every Sunday I sat around with my Spanish father watching bullfights on TV. I was a strange teenager and loved it then. I went to one bullfight in Barcelona, where I lived, and loved that as well.
Now, when I return, it breaks my heart - I actually had to skin this article. That said, I did take my sons to the bullfighting museum in Sevilla and rather enjoyed a visit - it was a very bloodless, talky sort of visit. I do think could not sit through a bullfight now. But as a teenager- well, I was also really into watching boxing. I could watch a boxing match easier than a bullfight now, but I’d rather watch tennis (or hockey, I do love hockey, fights included…)
Obviously there is so much theory about why humans watch sports, brutal ones in particular. I keep meaning to read Joyce Carol Oates’ book on boxing - she’s a FANATIC.
Right now, I am watching Rafael Nadal play at the French Open and cheering for him! A different sort of fight, clay court tennis is, but the Spanish men do it better than anyone else.
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Comment by pb |Edit This
2008-05-28 17:13:09
oops- I meant to say “skim’ not skin, the article…
and forgive my other typos..
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Comment by kip |Edit This
2008-05-29 04:16:24
Josie — I don’t disagree with you in the least. I’m still not a fan of bullfighting, just happened to get caught up this particular one without getting nauseous feeling hyper-empathy. Maybe some of us grow more callous with age.
PB- Thanks for the comments. No offense that you skinned/skimmed the post - as it is rather squeamish and not for everyone.
I had to get it out of my system.
A friend told me recently that he thought if he had to choose between being a cow used for beef or a bull used for a bullfight, he would prefer the latter. Dying violently was somehow more noble than being herded into a barn to get a metal rod rammed into your head and that be it. I don’t know how I feel about it really and I wasn’t trying to make a statement one way or the other here. I just wanted to describe the rejoneador bullfight. It was horrific, gory, barbaric, exciting and, at points, rather beautiful.
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Comment by Emma R |Edit This
2008-05-29 05:10:35
Kip. Great, vivid post, as always.
I suppose I think of it like this: I am a bull, in my field, chewing my grass and wondering what my purpose in life is. Am I here to enjoy the sun on my back? To make amorous noises at the cows in the next field? To uncover the mysteries of a grassy field?
And then I find out. It is to die while people cheer.
As it is, I am a person. I sit at my desk and wonder what the purpose of my life is. Is it to fall in love? To uncover the mysteries of the universe?
I hope the ending is kinder to me.
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Comment by kip |Edit This
2008-05-29 06:13:18
Emma,
Excellent–poetic even–observation.
I do think Bullfights are a pretty shitty way to go out and probably serve to show us how little we’ve (or some of us’ve) changed compared to the Romans.
Thanks for commenting. I always enjoy your insights.
Kip
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Comment by 1159 |Edit This
2008-05-29 08:10:24
Excellent descriptions, vivid indeed.
It is metaphor is it not? For this maddening existential mess we call life?
Are we the Bull or the fighter?
And where is God?
Ole!…. ?
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Comment by MLP |Edit This
2008-05-29 09:11:55
This description was as elegant as the savage ballet of a bullfight intends to be.
I could do without the spikes. Would I rather be someone’s meal or someone’s entertainment?
Hard choice. I think maybe entertainment.
Once I went to the running of the bulls ripoff in San Miguel Allende and they made tacos after the spectacle.
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Comment by Josie |Edit This
2008-05-29 09:40:18
You get no judgment from me, doll. My point is that a place/people/culture can shift our personal perspectives in powerful ways.
But I had to comment on your comment:
“It was horrific, gory, barbaric, exciting and, at points, rather beautiful.”
That is the way of life, isn’t it?
To be able to see the beauty in all things… I don’t think the calloused can do that
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Comment by Rich Ferguson |Edit This
2008-05-30 07:23:11
hey kip:
sorry for the delay in commenting, my friend. great post. yeah, i went to see my first bullfight in tijuana about six years ago. the horrific images i saw that day have stayed with me ever since. haven’t been to a bullfight since. and if never go to another before i die that’s fine by me.
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Comment by pb |Edit This
2008-06-01 20:16:55
“It was horrific, gory, barbaric, exciting and, at points, rather beautiful.”
I’m the second person quoting this one. Very very true. When I lived there, I really felt the beauty of the bullfight. But like I said, now it just makes me look away. You do describe the whole thing very well without judgement.
But the above quote made me think of a first person article in the New Yorker I read eons ago, written by a woman who swam in the Antartic- -like next to icebergs, and didn’t die - for the longest time and/or length- not very long mind you. She refered to it as an experience of “harsh beauty”.
We jump out of airplanes, we push our bodies, we enjoy violent spectacles- and yet, we suffer, too, we feel others’ pain, we fear pain. We protect others, care for others and ourselves. And then?
To further the riff- in regard to experience, giving birth to my two sons was theee most profound experience of my life. And I thought I was gonna die at least once each time.
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Comment by Ageunt |Edit This
2008-08-24 23:01:56
Before moving to Spain for five years, I saw a Corrida de Rejones in Zaragoza and had similar feelings about it - mainly based on the skill of the horse riders and the beauty of man and beast in harmony. Then I realised without the bulls it would basically be equestrianism, and who watches that?
My main feelings tend towards hilarity that such a thing still exists in western europe in the twenty-first century. It says as much about Spain as the Olympic basketball team making slit-eyes in the national press. It’s a place with one hoof in its mouth and two of the others in the past, and that’s what makes Spain such a fascinating curio.
If bullfighting was that good (even with horses), then why aren’t the TV rights syndicated to come after the game on Super Sunday?