I surrendered wholly to Hemingway’s 1932 literary embrace of bullfighting. In Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway narrated and choreographed the ceremonial life of the matador and the ritualized elegance that electrifies the life experience described as a “dance with death.” Hemingway educated me via his explanatory glossary of bullfighting’s terminology, and of greater importance to me were sixty-five pages of photographic illustrations by the great bullfighting photographers of the time, Vandel and Rodero.
It was vintage black-and-white photographs of the great matadors Juan Belmonte and the first great Joselito that inspired me to take on this journey to experience – through my eyes and my camera – the truth of the bullfight.
My research immediately led me to Joselito, the greatest bullfighter of our time. Not Jose Gomez, the earlier notable Joselito of the 1910s, killed by a bull in the legendary Plaza de Talavera, but the contemporary Joselito, José Miguel Arroyo Delgado, born in Madrid in 1969, who was to become my source of inspiration for the full month of August 1997.
On August 4th, in the small town of Estella, Spain, I felt a bit faint, confused, and torn after experiencing my first afternoon/early evening of bullfighting, six bulls in all. I was totally moved yet underprepared for the ritualized dance and the rapture between the bull, the matador, and the audience of adoring fans. Americans can only see and experience the surface dynamic of a historic encounter that began, for the Spanish, between man and bull in the twelfth century. I was there to experience and to document a ritual that began ages ago and exists in the marrow of the Spanish. I had no idea what effect this experience would have on me, as my knowledge was so limited. I came with an open heart, not to judge, but to learn, listen, smell, taste, and to see why bullfighting was a “breath of life” to the majority of Latin populations. It was on this evening that I was to be introduced to “The Great One,” the maestro of bullfighting, El Matador, Joselito.
As I, that evening, awaited my turn to introduce myself to Joselito, I only heard Spanish spoken. It occurred to me that I might have a major problem because my broken Spanish was little more than a very broken Italian. All I could think of then was that I was a few feet from the Michael Jordan of bullfighting and I was going to blow this thing right out of the water because my Spanish sounded like Yiddish.
At that very moment a young man of about twenty introduced himself, in perfect English, as Miguel Gárriz Zabala, and the words “Can I Help you with something?” came out of his mouth. I explained my situation, my journey, and my intentions to Miguel, who then said to me, “Well, let me translate for you to Joselito, if you don’t mind.” Don’t mind? I wanted to kiss this kid I was so thrilled. The next thirty minutes or so became a fairy tale written by an angel. Not only was I to become part of Joselito’s team, but I was to be granted exclusive access to Joselito in over twenty different cities in twenty different Plaza de Toros.
After a dinner with Joselito, we began our evening travel. We traveled together for the next thirty days. Bullfights take place in the late afternoon, before sunset, between 4 and 4:30pm. The whole ceremony and six bullfights per evening would last about three hours. I traveled over six thousand miles that month following Joselito and his team from town to town, bullfight to bullfight.
It is hard to say why Joselito allowed me to travel with him. It is hard to say just what he believed I was there to do. I can say that I felt a special connection that first evening with Joselito, and I believe he felt that with me. Somewhere deep inside of Joselito I believe he knew that I was there to dream of myself as a great matador, of having enough courage to enter the arena with these massive beasts, of being the man who would dance the last dance with the bull as my partner. Joselito knew I was there to experience his art with the same reverence I would give to watching Goya paint a canvas.
Over the next thirty days I would experience Joselito not only as the master matador, but also as a good man filled with respect for everyone around him. I observed his warm, beautiful connection with his father, who was his teacher, mentor, and his biggest aficionado. He loved and respected his team and fellow toreros as they laughed, joked, and traveled mile upon mile together bonding in brotherhood. They had each other and needed each other both inside and outside the Plaza de Toros. I watched nightly when, after each bullfight in each city, the women would line up in the hotels, waiting for their chance to catch the great matador’s eye. These women shared a dream that they alone would be the woman who could tame the man they thought would be their wild, willful, fearless lover. And I watched each night as Joselito, with great respect, declined their promising advances. Joselito treated everyone in his life with honor and respect, always aware that tomorrow could be his last. He knows that he stalks death and that his art is the ultimate equalizer – the next time in one of the beautiful Plaza de Toros could be his night, if not the bull’s.
On August 25th in the town of Allegro, Spain, about twenty days into the journey, Joselito agreed to let me document, on film, his preparation for the evening’s bullfight. He never before allowed an outsider to observe this very special two to three-hour quiet time of meditation, deep thought and concentration. This was time spent only with his very close assistant who nightly would talk quietly as he would help Joselito into his “suit of lights.” I am sure Joselito was visualizing the veronicas that he would perform that evening, visualizing past great bullfights that he had performed and, possibly as he meditated deeply, he was asking his higher power for a safe, clean kill of the animal that he loved and respected. It was this evening, that 25th of August, as Joselito entered the center of the arena facing his second and last bull of the evening, when just a few steps from the bull’s horns, Joselito turned his back to his dance partner and walked towards me. My heart started pounding because I had never seen him do this – and why was he walking towards me? Nearing me he began to remove his montera, his matador’s hat. Joselito then offered the hat to me, looking deeply and sincerely into my eyes. In Spanish, Joselito told me he was dedicating this bull to me, this evening, in honor of our friendship. The crowd began to cheer and an energy went through the arena that I have never seen or felt before. My hands trembled and my heart beat fast. I was overwhelmed, confused and even a bit nauseous, wondering why me, why this great honor for me?
Joselito went on that evening to perform the best bullfight of my month with him. He was carried around the arena on the shoulders of his most powerful admirers. I was mobbed. Fans wanted a chance to touch me, wondering who I was, who was this man that Joselito had just honored with the highest honor a matador could bestow on anyone. My head was spinning as I tried to control the crowd. I was photographing when I could get my hands on my camera. It was all happening so fast. I caught a glimpse of Joselito waving to me; I waved back and a tear began to roll down my cheek. Friendships don’t usually have this kind of formal bonding ritual and I knew then that I had a friend forever, whether or not we would ever meet again. Contact did not matter because what mattered is that two men who came from completely different cultures bonded in the belief that we are from the same mold. There, then, we were respectful men, warriors, adventurers and lovers of life. Joselito taught me much about myself that month, and with honor I feel blessed to have had the chance to document a small part of his life.
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