April 25th, 2004 was the last day of our Weddingmoon in Europe. We had been married in Vernaza, Italy; traveled Italy, then to Amsterdam and Spain. It had been and amazing adventure and Barcelona had won our hearts instantly. What better way to end our trip with a little Spanish bull fighting. We walked for miles to get the tickets and the gentleman who sold us the tickets was very enthusiastic about our attendance.

Sitting across the street from the bullfighting arena was the coolest part of the whole experience. The matadors and their lesser matadors were driven into the arena while anxious fans sipped drinks and cheered them on. We bought a lovely poster and watched the socializing locals.

The opening ceremonies of the bullfight were beautiful. Ornate costumes, a ritual of presenting and posing for the fans. Traditions older than my great grandmother at work, but oddly similar to the opening ceremonies of any football or basketball game. Our eyes were in love with bull fighting until the actual event began.

Like an idiot, I wore a red shirt and the first hot blooded bull coming out ran straight towards our section of the stadium. I seriously considered jumping out of my seat and running. The first few minutes of the event are to run the bull down. There are walls for the picadors to hide behind. We saw a bull do a front roll, end over end. Funnier than a cartoon.

Once the bull is worn out, the picadors get their go at the bull. They poke barbs into the bulls back with long sticks covered with red and yellow tassels. It was amazing how close these senors got to el toro. This seemed to anger the bull and draw a little blood, but didn't really injure him in any way. No, they are saving the big time hurt for a guy who comes out on a blindfolded, armored horse and the featured matador.

Up to this point i had not experienced the real life Friday the 13th aspects of bullfighting. The fellah on the blindfolded, armored horse comes out and stabs the bull in the back with a long spear. There were 8 to 9 bulls fought on this day and this part of sport made me realize why I might need an entire bottle of tequila. A wave of emotion and adrenaline washed over me with dizzying effects. I gulped down my beer and bought another. Beau Been was busy taking pictures & it is much easier to deal with a situation by capturing individual images, rather than dealing with the entire event. We took more photos on this day than even our wedding.

As a sheltered American, to say the least, we were out of our element. This was serious business. After a good stab to the back it was time for the matador to have his go at a worn out, bleeding and dying bull. The matador's ability to hypnotize and mesmerize the bull were obvious. With grace and ease he played with the bull until revealing a long sword hidden behind his red cape. If the matador was lucky, we would stab the bull deep in it's back on the first try. Matadors were booed who had to withdraw their sword and try again. Once the matador had brought the bull to the ground, a clean up crew comes in, stabs the bull in the brain to ensure his death, hooks him up to a device behind to horses and drags him off; never to be heard from again.

This was a disturbing event, a friend told me Barcelona had banned bullfighting since because it placed a bad light on the history and art of their fantastic city and it's wonderful people. I was happy to see a tv show about Picasso when I returned to the states. Apparently, Picasso had seen a bullfight at a very young age and it had not settled well with him either. In many of his painting, he can be seen as the bull man. Picasso must have favored the underdog just like myself. I had hoped to see one man, one full functional bull fight to the death.

I painted Muerta del Toro because I needed to reflect on this experience. While I pitied the bull, I have never been a huge fan of cows or bulls. The bull in my painting doesn't have any real features begging for your acceptance. Instead, it seems to remember his plight. While he might get a good stab to the matador or even kill him, he is a goner, condemned to death. I will probably not go to another bullfight, but I do not regret taking part in one. Something inside of me was deeply changed. Oddly, this spectacle of killing teaches some life lesson. Life is not fair. A bull is still a bull who will most likely be shot in the head and eaten any way and maybe Americans watching horror movies as a supplement for the more horrific alternatives their ancestors enjoyed like bull fight, human sacrifice in the Colleseum or the town hanging. It all definitely has a bigger meaning...

I would be interested to know how men who launch wars on innocent civilian population feel about bullfights. Is it bloodlust or priorities that bring men to killing each other? I still get dizzy looking thru the many photos beau been and I took that day. The imaged are much more beautiful than the event and they are priceless to me as a reminder of this day in my life.