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It has been a few years since I wrote the text that will appear at the end of this photo report that I have prepared for La Vanguardia’s Readers’ Photos.

I was then in a restaurant and, paradoxically, I had just tried a Manolete paella, a typical rice that was served in the establishment where I was. And I remember that later, while I was having coffee, I was looking through the newspaper that I borrowed from the store, until I found the news and paid attention to it.

It was about the fact that the Monumental bullring in Barcelona had turned a century since its construction, and, naturally, it offered some details of its history and its possible destiny after its closure in 2010.

All of that brought back memories referring to feelings and experiences I experienced during my childhood, when some Sunday afternoons my father took me to the bullfights in La Monumental. I was very fortunate to witness magnificent works by the great masters of the sixties.

And there at the restaurant table, I don’t remember well now, I immediately grabbed my cell phone or asked a waiter to give me a sheet of paper. I ordered another coffee and prepared to write a few lines of singular bullfighting commemoration. It’s still curious when I think about it. Writing that I naturally keep.

On the other hand, having passed many years since that meal, a few months ago, after many failed attempts, I managed to access the interior of the Monumental to take photos. I walked through interior spaces of the square that I didn’t know, the guts of the arena, and I was very excited, apart from photographing what I considered interesting, which was the initial objective of the visit.

However, I must confess that I could not portray some rooms. To do this I had to obtain prior permission, and that day I was not willing to give up everything I finally had before me in exchange for waiting for authorization that I did not know would arrive.

My personal experience was worth it, but with the photographic experience I was left halfway, because I left the square with the feeling of not having shot a single usable shot; And the truth is, I still continue to think about it. I had the sensation of having a newly discovered treasure before me and, on the other hand, the permanent uneasiness of not being sure of where to place the camera to capture the multitude of images that my mind saw and that the viewfinder did not reflect.

Time has passed and so have the regrets, and I have finally decided to make public the text of the restaurant and a few photographs from the report. I hope that by sharing it on the La Vanguardia Readers Network it makes sense. At this moment I don’t know if I will achieve it. In any case, the text is sincere and the photos are what they are.

I clarify this last because from the beginning I had thought about using that old writing for the photo report that now concerns me. And when it comes down to it, it has been difficult for me to decide to use it because I consider it very personal.

For this reason, I have been thinking about whether or not I retouched the text or qualified any part of it, which I have not done. And I had also considered referring here to the reason for its content: what if it commented on this, what if it said that, what if it explained the other, what if it questioned that statement…

And I have come to the conclusion that, since the bullfighting environment is a source of discord, a symbol of disagreement and a breeding ground for confrontations, the only thing I intended when developing the text with more arguments was to justify myself, clarify interpretations or take issue. to the tail of that goodism that abounds so much today so as not to face the woke fashion.

But I am not going to comment on anything else about it, what I wrote, very sincere, is written, and it says like this:

“Today you turn a century. And it makes me very sad not to be able to congratulate you on your birthday. Those distant afternoons of bullfighting and memorable tasks still live vividly in my memory. But I’m not going to congratulate you, I can’t. Neither your present nor your future allow me to do so. You live exiled in your own arena, and you are a mute witness of the embarrassment that dresses you in melted lights, disguised as a hypocritical politician who admires the clumsy, adorned ballet flat. They have condemned you to closure with a perverse thrust high and boneless. They raised you as a Mudejar for the fight, and any other use they give you is an outrage, both for you and for all of us who, applauding from the stands, had the privilege of thanking the teacher’s greeting with an ear in each hand. No. It was necessary for your gang to leave you alone, unfortunately they have finished you off with three disrespectful acts.