When the bull scribbles the bullfighter on the shins as if the Valdeflores yerba germinated in the flesh of the man and the crutch is lost in the holes in the air, when Morante lowers his hand to where the mantle of the earth sleeps and sinks In the tectonic entrails of grace looking for prehistoric events on its own tombstone, when the symbiosis of pain and temperance, fear and pleasure occurs, bullfighting trembles for seguiriyas. He screams to death. October 1, 2021 in the Plaza de Sevilla. The juampedro goes to a space and José Antonio, in his disorder, goes to another era. Half courage, half stillness. Bullfighter
it sticks like a menhir before the bull of Tartessos occupying the site of the journey and forces the animal to open another path. There are ten or twelve, no more. But there it is. He invades his jurisdiction to seek the embrocation of madmen and on a single body, both a gladiator and a sorcerer, he takes the rope of the crutch to a dark corner, with improvised eternity, where the invisible is seen. An infinite natural. The feet in the hole of the cross. The breathing of the still bull is the music of the task. Another natural juxtaposed on the previous one. If the first has not yet finished, how can the second already be being born?
From the moment he opened the palms of his hands in the handful of veronicas in passing until he buried the sword in the media, Morante had a duel with the Giralda, who in the fiery autumn of Seville was dressed in lights at the time in the one that God looked into the ring. That is why bullfighting is invincible. Because when bull and bullfighter meet on the fringes of the acronym, the stretcher loses consciousness. And those who have been at that crossroads of space and time live the rest of their life with the pinch inside. Those of us who saw the medium from La Puebla pass the world through English at the Baratillo will never leave there. Morante embarked ‘Jarcio’ with a work that sums up all the visual arts. How many different bullfighting can fit in this task? The cordobinas to land, the galleo in yellow to bring the bull to the horse, the fuchsia dress, the classic heterodoxy, the delay in seeing the love for the left … The bullfighter sat the juampedro on the desk and taught him to charge. Or vice versa. And when he had it soaked, he stood where pythons hug, where flesh shrinks in self-defense, and there he passed out. How can there be so much depth in a loose crutch? In Morante’s alchemy heroism has been mixed with slowness, complaint with melody, rage with magic. He has found the bullfighting with black blood, the one with the brilliant imperfection, the one that in full despair throws a blanket on the ground, the one that hypnotizes miuras with the fingertips, the one that when it happens once should not be seen again, that bullfight that The Seguiya of the platonic love of the Niña de los Peines whispers to the bull in his ear: «How I know that with you / I am not going to achieve myself, / so my sorrows are never less, / they always go to more» …
And see if my grief is bad that every crutch from Morante de la Puebla, impetuous handcuff from beyond, is a shame that I didn’t want it to be taken away from me.