It was 1997, when I was persuaded to enter the bull ring in Seville for the first (and last) time in my life. Looking through the viewfinder of my Leica, I thought of Hemingway & Picasso, their admiration for the bullfighters. Hemingway wrote about the toreros in Death in the Afternoon as; “the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honor”.
The man in front of me in the arena seems to understand it, sweating intensely, forcing me to change the position of my head. After 2 fights, I understand that the bull has no chance at all, that there is no fight, just the killing of the animal. I can't see anymore of it, leaving my company alone.
Now, 23 years later, I see these slides in my archive and decide to scan them. I am back in the arena, almost smell the excitement of my neighbour again, the cruelty, the hunger for blood, but also a kind of pervers beauty. This is daily's reality in the slaughterhouses, I realise. Without audience, trumpets and pervers beauty.