From inspiration to fatigue | Culture

What a human being is… Or artists. How inexplicably they go from the inspiration that gives them firmness, poise and sensitivity to reluctance and inability; how that head moments before converted into a bundle of intimate flashes suddenly offers a tiring, discolored, broken and blurred image.

Something like that—anyone knows if it was like that or not—happened to Morante. The square, even the flag; the illusion, through the clouds, and a bullfighter touched by the hand of art in front of a large and fine bull, – which had hit the picador Aurelio Cruz, trampled, in turn, by the horse -, on a short trip in banderillas, but noble, little bellows and classy in the muleta third. And there, facing each other, moments to remember were lived. Morante, dressed in solemnity, gigantic in disposition, initially drew an exquisite trench and a change of hands that tasted like glory. A large group of natives, later, one by one, deep and beautiful in their solitude; three more deep blows with the right hand, closed with an eternal trench blow. And to conclude the painting, two superb naturals, the plant seated, the figure tight, the waist dancing.

The supreme moment arrived, and the artist lost something in his gut. The haughty and confident bullfighter became doubtful, insecure, very distrustful of himself, who behaved like a human in trouble. It’s not that he clicked again and again, it was the faded way, – no, I don’t want to see it… – of executing the luck. The complacency of the people disappeared and the air darkened with a fight as loud as it was deserved.

The muses left and did not return, pushed, perhaps, by the anger of the public, and the fourth bull was hit very hard on the horse, in such a way that he arrived sunk and knocked out in the final third. Morante stood there, as if nothing had happened, but the animal could not give anything other than the honorable acceptance of death. And the whistles returned, rightly so, no doubt. The matador did not shine, but the team did: Curro Javier, excellent in the fight, and Joao Ferreira and Alberto Zayas, superior in banderillas.

Urdiales slowly approached the media, montera in hand, and, temperate and very ceremonious, presented the crowd with his first opponent. He drew high-quality crutches, enjoying the encounter, with both hands, and although emotion did not arise due to the animal’s lack of greed, the aftertaste of a work dotted with grace remained in the atmosphere. He could do nothing against the very meek fifth, who fled in terror from the horse and was hurt in banderillas.

The young García Pulido, new to the ranks, did not want to be invited out of the blue – he took the alternative at the last Valdemorillo fair – and saved the very serious commitment with determination and solvency. He was below the bull’s confirmation, which he charged with firmness and rhythm through the right piton, and which he managed to temper in several rounds of good tone. He lacked, perhaps, the outburst, the passion, to take that step forward that separates a solvent task from a true triumph. It was amply justified by the meek and lackluster sixth that fled in terror in all the thirds.

The Alcurrucén bullfight was very disappointing, well presented and astyfine, tame and bottomless. None of them allowed cape bullfighting, the six of them had a short trip, meek in the first third, and the first four were noble in the muleta but without inner life.

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