Bramaba Madrid, rendered to an artist immersed in his own depth. Unfathomable was born and abyssal died the work of Emilio de Justo to a 625 kilos ship, on the threshold of six years. ‘Falorero’ demolished the theory that big old bulls do not charge. And the Extremadura strengthened the axiom of the century in sepia, which is the same as that of the century of the networks: there is no public or animal that resists purity and classic bullfighting. Which is always the most authentic. Total command was in the doubloons, leading the fierce onslaught of the copy of Domingo Hernández, born to die in the Cathedral of the Fiesta. The giant was moving
with transmission while Emilio fought him luxuriously for the right python. One sculpture to teach at the Fine Arts was the chest pass. And the trincherilla? All the bullfighting fit in that space below. De Justo offered fabrics with the ideal touch, placed where fire burns, where the background of brave and meek explodes. Emotion ran wild before the humiliated engine of ‘Farolero’ and the femoral delivery of the man from Cáceres, knowing that one step forward and man can die. The same gave him: for a bullfighter the unforgivable thing is the step back, that with which art ends.
Forgotten of the body, the one from Torrejoncillo abandoned himself to infinity, so settled, with such careful poise, that there was no retina that did not magnetize to its anchor. A lit volcano was then the Monumental: sparks flew between series and series. The spirit of Camarón, his idol, shook his wrists to the beat of a great cante; the genie’s guitar caressed his fingertips. Flamenco and pure the rosary of trenches and trincherillas sprouted after a right-handed batch to the natural. Without help. 237 Calle de Alcalá was a madhouse for the most blessed of follies. When he buried the sword up to the hawks, the square plunged into a collective ecstasy. Between smiles and tears, Emilio de Justo looked at the sky of Madrid, the one of which this season he is the absolute owner. Incontestable the two ears that opened his second consecutive Great Door. The hoarse smells that had bathed the immense sea of his work were now shouts of “bullfighter, bullfighter!” in unison. Gone was his task to the second pronghorn, who ignored. Too much was entertained before the eternity of his shoulder outing.
The afternoon had started rhythmically. ‘Poet’ was the baptism of the first and in each attack he recited a verse. Of harmonic workings, it grew in each verse. They seemed not to have enough strength to his quality, but El Juli proposed a task of intelligent terrain and technique. He gently drove it on the bends and at idle the opening round came up. With great pleasure, as if the pain from the somersault in the field had only one cure: reunite with Madrid. More bossy and with the compass half open he continued. Naturally, he gave the precise touch to a bull that wasted nobility. Sweetness in the journey and touch of Julián, who granted him distances in the return to the doll of the spoon, now more sprawled out, sweeping the windy sand with power. It was El Juli in its purest form. He took pleasure in the windlass, in the change of hand and the semi-pectoral, to delve into a trincherilla and a chest pass to the opposite shoulder pad. So long that it still lasted as he walked the ring with his conquered ear. Some, the least, protested it while the crowd responded happily.
The supporters of the Madrid figure licked a greater victory in the second section, when the volume of the serious bullfight increased. Two hangers to hang Filomena’s coats brought the room, which soon broke the joys of possible glory. The best: the colossal pair of Iván García, who dismantled with the square literally standing. The garcigrande wanted to shave the beard of the matador, who did not give much thought knowing that nothing had to be scratched with an ‘Explosive’ without class or zeal. Only two broken missiles on the head.
The varied run was closed with the task of illusion. A real illusion called Juan Ortega, who fell in love with his sevillany and that naturalness of those touched by the wand of God. Softness impressed in each encounter with the meek and obedient ‘Piedrito’. All their senses enjoyed that river of caresses and the prize was already present, but pithing stood in their way. They gave him a farewell ovation before lifting the owner and guardian of Madrid’s sky: Emilio de Justo on his shoulders.