"Fight and kill your fucking mother", said a graffiti in the metaverse of the ground floor of the 5. Against that graffiti, which is the representation of external reality, so hostile to the beauty of bullfighting, Juan Ortega claimed vindication.
Hers, that beauty, is the only thing, perhaps the last thing, that can redeem, save, the world.
His work reversed the rotational axis of the afternoon, and stopped the core of the earth.
When it got dark for everyone...
Urdiales and Ortega had shunned gold.
So the jet of that one and the silver of this one gave that touch of distinction to the hand in hand dressed as art.
And art, like the heart, has things that reason does not understand.
Above all for some orphan of sense who seasoned Diego's brevity with a whistle when José Vázquez's inaugural bull began to sour sending messages of malaje.
Until that moment, his little push had been worth it for a sketch of verónicas vazqueñas (Andrés) to emerge, interrupted by the fugues of the meek man and a prologue of bass work that had its maximum expression in a signature pass and a beautiful trench .
Then, the bull, swaggering and buttoned up - "how comfortable!" El Rosco shouted - falsely pretended to be asleep.
Until he soon warned.
Juan's bull, the great absence of San Isidro, drew more face and depth.
That with the cloak he left his stamp in some genuflecting stances -closed with luminous three stockings in that position- and, especially, in a singular removal of verónicas that became aprons -because of the beautiful Sevillian turn, for drawing it with the back of the outside hand-, to open compass.
Another stocking with a wide flight also died at the hip.
There was a roar of oles and that hum that presages work.
There was hope in the bull, within the counted heat of him.
JO she gave it to the public and tested it.
Until he offered her the left on a couple of sets of good stroke, wide open with the lunge, too.
An infinite chest pass came to fix another deep honk from the sharp Rosco, not without certainties: "You have to put yourself in the place!".
The adjustment was greater on the right hand, the curve as well.
But, in general, the subtlety of the task did not take shape -we would have to wait- in the absence of the decisive step.
A slump ended up putting a mute to the passages of polished aesthetics, with the class that it treasures.
The bullfight entered a deep rut of torpor with the return of the trembling third and the appearance of the coarse fifth, as the turn was run.
Urdiales also plunged into the thicket, without finding a glimmer of light -more than in a beautiful series of natives facing each other- in that deadly walk of the animal.
A plate of tripe in the fridge.
The thing straightened out with the stooped and deep fourth, the only cinqueño in the bullfight, with the face of a racing bike, a prodigious neck, and a slow-burning sound.
That flame mixed with gentleness.
At that speed, Juan Ortega turned bullfighting into laziness, into a spiritual exercise, now reunited with the bull and his very essence.
It was on his right the beauty, poured the cauldron of the foundry, making bronzes of naturalness, waist and compass.
Since he stopped, down there, with a kick out of the prologue, the core of the earth.
And the afternoon began to turn backwards.
And on the left of him, seized the toothpick at the tips.
They also fight playing with the flights that ended up back there.
The cadence of his wrist sublimated the entire task, if unbeatable in his right hand.
A change of hand still flutters, unfinished, through the Sierra de Madrid.
Like the two-handed finish, the outburst that turned silver into gold.
Only the sword prevented the spherical glory, not the ear, a lesser prize for something so great: the beauty that redeems the world.
And we will not see in Las Ventas.
The fifth showed the points, so uneven the run ahead, neither fu nor fa inside.
Like Diego Urdiales, denied with fortune, but not only, trying to find himself.
Indefinite one, looking for the definition of him the other.
a long racking
The last bull definitively tipped the balance of the draw, excessively unbalanced.
In one way or another, with more or less note, Juan Ortega was attacked by all three.
And he said goodbye with inspired stretches of bullfighting, already very grown up, very far from the beginning of the afternoon.
That he dismissed with a sword blow to topram.
He earned his ear.
And the big door.
Bulls by José Vázquez for Diego Urdiales and Juan Ortega
Plaza de la Candelaria.
Sunday, February 5, 2023. Second fair.
Almost full.
Bulls owned by José Vázquez, including the sombrero (5th), a cinqueño (4th);
uneven presence ahead;
of poor background, meek and lackluster in general;
they stood out 2nd and, above all, the 4th;
the 6th was also lent.
Diego Urdiales, from Rioja and jet.
Puncture, lunge and pimples (silence).
In the third, lunge through and pissing (greetings from the pocket).
In the fifth, puncture and opposite lunge (silence).
Juan Ortega, in bottle green and silver.
Bajonazo (slight request and greetings).
In the fourth, puncture, deep puncture and pimpling (ear).
In the sixth, sword blow and pissing (ear).
Big door.
According to the criteria of The Trust Project
Know more
San Isidro
Bulls
Articles Zabala de la Serna