By Sarah Safsten
A strident trumpet sings, and bullfighters enter
the Plaza de Toros. Some walk, some ride horses.
All carry brightly colored capes. A bull follows
the procession, wearing a rosette with the
colors of Pamplona.
A bullfight is a tragedy in three acts: the pike
(tercio de varas), the banderilla (tercio de banderillas),
and the killing (tercio de muerte).
Act one: tercio de varas. Picadores—horse-
mounted bullfighters—watch, assessing the
bull’s aggression as they ready their lances. The
bull charges, ready to draw blood. Yet these
picadors are clever. They wait at arm’s length,
creating a path for the bull while staying out of
reach.
The toros in the bullring are not common
livestock used for milk or meat. For centuries,
they have been bred to attack matadors. Because
of this pedigree, these bulls can fight several
toreros at once, without weapons other than their
own bodies, but no bull has ever won. Many
bullfighting aficionados see in this a microcosm
of life, death, sex, and war. Animal-rights
activists have argued for years that the sport is
cruel and outdated. Bullfighting is currently
illegal in many countries.
Act two: tercio de banderilla. Banderilleros shout
and wave, vying for the bull’s attention. The bull
charges toward the commotion, beautiful and
terrifying. At the last moment, a banderillero
steps slightly to one side and drives a pair of
barbed sticks between the bull’s shoulders. The
bull is stabbed again and again, penetrated by
curved barbs. His head hangs low, his neck
muscles weak.
Bullfighting values spectacle as much as (or
more than) the victory itself. It is hard to look
away from death performed live. In over 50
training schools in Spain, young matadors
practice the techniques that will ensure their
own safety while inflicting maximum damage to
the bull. They perfect the art of walking with
their hips pushed forward and their chest lifted
high. They twirl their capes and plant their
hooks.
Directed by the matador’s cape, the bull runs.
A circular bullring prevents his escape; his
hooves print curved patterns in the dirt. He
attacks opponents with the elegant curves of
his horns. The matador twirls a cape with
curved edges. This game is made of circles.
Act three: tercio de muerte. The matador enters
the bullring for the final act. The bull is weak
from pain and exhaustion. His legs move
slower, but the pressure remains high for the
matador as he passes dangerously closer to the
bull, trying to prove complete mastery over the
animal. The crowd grows in excitement,
screaming “Ole!” with each pass of the cape.
Finally, as the matador completes the last pass
of his cape, the bull charges the target for the
last time. The matador sinks his sword into the
bull’s neck for the killing blow. Then, relief.
This fight is finished. The bull dies.
The victorious matador savors the sound of the
screaming crowd.
“Please take your places for the paso doble!” I
stand opposite my partner, turning my body
away from his. I am a coiled whip: knees bent
low, back arched, scorpion-like. We wait in
silence for the music.
The dance of the paso doble portrays the three
stages of the bullfight. The man represents the
matador; the woman represents the matador’s
cape, the flamenco dancer, and the bull.
“And music, please.” Drums roll, beginning the
famous song “España Cani.” Castanets clack:
Slow. Slow. Slow. Quick quick. The trumpets,
violins, and flutes build the melody in layers,
increasing in energy and volume. We dance to
this music, alternating between movement and
stillness, between attacker and prey.
The institution of ballroom dance has often been
guilty of sexism and elitism. Traditionalists argue
that the essence of ballroom dancing is the
aesthetic contrast between masculine and
feminine movements, and that to remove this
contrast through egalitarian reforms would be to
destroy it. Nevertheless, modern ballroom
dancers have begun to make significant reforms,
including a rule change which allows same-sex
and gender-neutral couples to compete.
Trumpets crescendo; the second act begins. Our
staccato footwork mimics the stabbing
banderillos. Chest lifted, my partner stalks back
and forth, demanding for me to charge toward
him. I comply and perform my choreography. I
wheel about, daring him to catch me. My skirt
fans out as I spin. Beautiful and terrifying, I am a
piece of fabric, an animal, a woman with an
obligation to play my part.
Paso doble dancers engage in a passionate
contest: man versus woman. The paso doble
technique book instructs, The chest should be held
forward with a feeling of pride. The Man has a straighter
line in the back, the Lady by contrast a curve. There
must be strength throughout the Man’s posture, always
dominating his partner. Paso doble dancers perfect
the art of twirling their capes, swishing their
skirts, and walking with their chests held high.
When my partner pulls me closer, I follow. Our
choreography is circular; we dance counter-
clockwise around the ballroom. He pulls me
leftwards if I start moving too much to the right.
My body curves around his. I arch my back,
aware of the curves of my breasts and hips. I am
a circular creature.
Act three. The music repeats its now-familiar
melody, but louder and faster before the climax. I
am an animal, capable of fearsome destruction.
My eyes sting from the beads of my partner’s
sweat that have flown into my face. His skin is
wet, and so is mine. We’re panting hard and feel
the nearness of the end.
The music stops. I lie on the floor—my final
pose—while my partner stands over my body.
As I catch my breath, I relish this feeling of
beautiful, beastly power. Yet I still feel uneasy
with the violent narrative of bullfighting. I
search my triad of identities—the cape, the
flamenco dancer, the bull—for satisfaction, for
some victory in this ending.
The audience is cheering. I stand beside my
partner and we take our final bow.
