,please, please, a picture, please, The foreigner is surprised to find the King of Spain so close. ,oh my god it’s letizia, “No, man, no, it’s Ayuso!”, let go of a fan in a starched shirt and suspenders. “The wind blows. The president is shaken by his dress, I don’t know, there is no brave bull with a sunny wind, said Don Eduardo Miura,” he continued. An angry escort makes his way through the crowd: “I said, enough photos.”

Plaza de las Ventas is a sound scene of screams and silence. The echoes of the beliefs were felt with an open heart, frankly spoken, without filter, released as such. Fleeting moments are discarded and mesh, stitching together the explanation of a party of entanglements, to each other. The crowd flows towards the doors in a chaotic order. Every new look is a glimpse of the truth. Those men and women who forget the cold laziness of everyday life. Now they go on with the inaccuracy of time and the consequences of holding on to its definition. Only the decisive moment matters, living with the inconsistency of beauty, fixing in memory what fades before eyes,

The narrative comes alive when everything is lined up in that impossible spot, it is indelibly fixed in the heart of the stand, in the picture and in the soul of the bullfighter. Today it is as it was in the time when oxen were brought like lambs by Abronigal, a stream that gave a drink to kings and emperors. When the tram went up to Pueblo Nuevo, it smelled of street flower stalls, good luck selling gypsies, churros and pickles. Susan Sontag said that the photographer robs and preserves, denounces and sanctifies. Sometimes, a picture manages to show that delicate and powerful truth of the flow of simple things, revealing the nobility, value, balance and respect that the bull phenomenon establishes.

There is an eternal notion of separating familiar objects from their logical relations, referencing them, and giving them a new important character.

You always have to leave space, so that someone else will come into the image. That’s where the photographer is constantly waiting for someone or something to calibrate the perfect photo.

Down there, the bullfighter uncovers his art, each afternoon new and elusive. Step on the lime and sand, adjusting the concentric circles.

The hardest thing in bullfighting is to see the bull and keep it in the subconscious. The struggle over time, the suffering of bullfighters who punish themselves in search of value, nobility and balance.

A brave bull in need of screaming slips, the adrenaline sweated by spectators who seek the courage of a brave bull and a lonely man.

One afternoon, a strange silence descends on the square, not the silence of a disillusioned stretcher, but the custodian of a delicate and powerful truth.