Bullfighting is inextricably intertwined with Spanish tradition and history, so much so that in 2013 it was declared part of Spain’s cultural heritage by law. The sport is controversial, however, and opposition to bullfighting is on the increase within Spain. The socialist-led Spanish government excluded bullfighting from a youth culture voucher scheme introduced in 2022 by the prime minister, Pedro Sánchez. The scheme entitles young Spaniards turning 18 to receive €400 (£340) – 50% of which can be spent on cultural events such as exhibitions, plays and films. Earlier this year, the nation’s supreme court ruled that bullfighting should be included in the scheme, citing the 2013 legislation and adding that the “cultural, historical and artistic aspects” of the sport had legal validity.
Trainee bullfighters El Gali, Antonio Fernández Torres de Navarra and Manuel Petersen in Málaga bullring La Malagueta
There is a clear division in Spain between supporters of bullfighting and those who oppose it – with the fault line appearing to lie between political camps. While the current government has attempted to deter young people from engaging in the sport, the 2013 law that enshrines bullfighting as an “artistic manifestation” was introduced by its conservative predecessor.
Petersen and Fernández Torres de Navarra practise with the muleta in La Malagueta
Fernández Torres de Navarra and Petersen exit the amphitheatre
Now, following a snap general election called by Sánchez for 23 July, bullfighting’s future could be influenced by results at the ballot box. Statistics suggest bullfighting is in decline, no matter how passionate its adherents are. The number of traditional bullfights in Spain decreased from 648 in 2009 to 349 a decade later. In 2018-19, the last complete season before the Covid-19 pandemic, 5.9% of the population attended standard bullfights, or bullfights with bullocks or on horseback, compared with 57.8% who visited the cinema, according to the Survey of Cultural Habits and Practices in Spain. Interestingly, most of those who attended bullfighting events were aged 15-19 years old, so the picture is complex.
I have visited Spain to explore what bullfighting still offers hopeful young matadors in their late teens and early 20s – and what its loss might mean to them. On a quiet street in Málaga is an entrance to the impressive La Malagueta bullring.
La Malagueta bullring, Málaga
The large circular arena is bathed in soft, golden light as the sun sets and matadors, all in their teens or early 20s, arrive for evening practice. As I enter the empty arena alongside them I imagine the scenes that have unfolded here since the doors first opened in 1876. The vast arena is imposing, and I wonder how it must feel to stand as a matador in the centre, face to face with a bull weighing over half a tonne, surrounded by thousands of fans.
Wearing his traje de luces, Petersen sits within La Malagueta after practice
One of the first students I meet from the bullfighting school Escuela Taurina de Málaga is Manuel Petersen. He is gentle and reserved and laughs nervously during pauses in our conversation. There is nothing lighthearted, though, about the role Petersen is training for. Like his peers, he wants to be a star of bullfighting and chooses to face danger, and potentially death, each time he steps into the ring. As I question the appeal of the sport, he explains: “At the beginning, what most caught my attention was the atmosphere, the colour, the music and the props. As I matured I was fascinated by a man’s ability to dominate a brave animal with only a piece of cloth, and to [emotionally] move people with the performance.” Another student, Rafael Quesada Gabrieli, explains that alongside these dangers come important life lessons.
Trainee matador Rafael Quesada Gabrieli
“Bullfighting upholds many values such as love and respect – for both the bull and other people,” he says. “It teaches you to reach for your goals, to withstand stress and fear, and to live life with more intensity, as we could lose our life at any time.”
The high stakes are part of what makes this spectacle so enthralling for ticket holders. Óscar Plaza López, the president of the school, says bullfighting is not just a sport but an art form, and they treat it as such. Many of these young men appear to take a huge amount of pride in their commitment to their craft, perhaps feeling it is intrinsically linked to their heritage and, in some cases, their family identity.
Fernández Torres de Navarra, wearing his traje de luces and practising with his muleta, within La Malagueta
The trainee matadors wear flamboyant, tight-fitting traditional costumes
A few days later I visit Montoro, a rural town two hours from Málaga. I am here to watch David Fuentes, a young bullfighter with the weight of expectation on his shoulders. It is raining heavily, but this doesn’t stop the committed supporters filing into this intimate, open-top arena. The band begins to play as the first bull charges out into the sandy circle. In his flamboyant, tight-fitting turquoise suit, Fuentes stands poised in the centre, chest out, chin down and a red muleta cloth fixed to a stick on his side. It is an exhibition of strength, movement and machismo.
David Fuentes fights a bull in Montoro
He fights five bulls over the course of an afternoon, only stopped by the sound of a deep drum as each bull meets its death. The crowd absorbs every moment and some cheer while throwing flowers into the ring. Fuentes responds to the applause by throwing the severed ears of the bull back to the crowd. That weekend I visit Fuentes at his grandfather’s home – a three-floor treasure trove of historical bullfighting memorabilia.
“In my family there is a long line of matadors and novilleros [novice bullfighters],” Fuentes says. “My grandfather is a tailor who dresses the matador before the fight.” In the back garden stands a fake bull attached to a wheel, its torso made from hay. Fuentes’s grandad gives an example of how they rehearse – as he charges the model bull forward, his grandson shows enthusiastically how he can avoid the bull’s horns. It’s obvious bullfighting is their bond.
Fuentes, who comes from a long line of bullfighters, is dressed by his grandfather; the Fuentes’ family home
As we head back inside, I ask Fuentes what bullfighting has taught him. “As a young man bullfighting has taught me consistency, effort and sacrifice,” he replies. “ I think these are values that are missing in today’s society. Bullfighting matures you from an early age.” I ask his views on the antitaurino [anti-bullfighting] movement and what could be lost if the sport were banned. “Bullfighting generates so many jobs, from the people raising the cattle to the stall holders selling almonds outside the arenas,” he responds. “Cities and local businesses generate huge amounts of money from people visiting these events.”
Fuentes, surrounded by his grandfather’s paintings
Back in Málaga, I ask Rafael Quesada Gabrielle what the loss of bullfighting might mean. “I think we would lose part of our essence,” he says. “If bullfighting were to end, we would lose part of our culture and tradition, but also our jobs. The pasture where the bulls live, as well as the toro de lidia [a bull specifically bred for bullfighting], would become extinct.”
Fernández Torres de Navarra
I come to the end of my trip, thinking about the future of these young men and how their aspirations, heritage and even family ties could be lost if bullfighting were to die. It seems matador jobs are safe for now, though, and although attendance at bullfighting events is falling, the students I have met seem positive about the future of their art.
“I believe bullfighting has much more support than we usually think,” says Gabrielle. “Bullfighting will adapt to the digital age and [this will] bring bullfighting to a wider audience.” Antonio Fernández Torres de Navarra, a fellow student, supports this sentiment. “Feelings and emotions cannot be digitised,” he says. “An afternoon of bullfighting is just that – emotional. People modernise according to society, but good things are never lost no matter how many years pass.”
Photography and words: Owen Harvey
Shoot producer: Candy Field
