Crowded the stands close even more the perfect circle in which the show takes place. Everything is color, everything is light and sheen, everything is fatuous.
The people in the stands wave their hats and if one looks, will find a cadence in those movements that greet the party. And the party is born down there, in the arena, the party that sacrifices the innocent, and those who participate do so wearing gleaming costumes, riding spirited steeds covered with impossible tunics in the colors of the rainbow. And in the middle, always in the middle, it is observed the man wearing the costume of lights, everything in him is shine, everything reflection, everything fine brass sheeting and gold leaf; sequin and glitter. And he is sporting a cape ¡A cape! Completely red, like the color of the blood to be shed –it is hardly ever the bullfighter’s blood- and behind the cape –hidden- arise the sparkles of the long sword, long and sharp, coward and treacherous.
Alone, to one side of the arena, snorting, throwing dirt, is the innocent, in black and white, not in color. The bravest is down there, cowed for the noise, for the movement of hats, for the undulating red cape and the concealed presence of the sword. The animal is still in black and white, albeit at some point the red tint will turn violet in his dark body, for him the party is always forbidden.
I want my painting to be a homage of color to that which is monochrome in the middle of the orgy of pain and blood. Those are my bulls. The same ones of the arena. But in colors.