Álvaro Alarcón plays out the moment when he will enter Madrid’s Las Ventas bullring for his final challenge as a “novillero,” or apprentice bullfighter.
The 24-year-old has been training in the dusty countryside outside the Spanish capital, and his skintight suit, delicately woven with beads and gold embroidery, is back from the tailor. If he can triumph this last time, he will be considered for the highest rank of “matador” — bullfighters who take on beasts weighing more than half a ton.
“From the moment you get up until you go to bed, and even when you are asleep, you are dreaming about what you want to do in the bullring,” he said. “Being a bullfighter is a way of life.”
The death of Spanish bullfighting has been declared many times, but the number of bullfights in the country is at its highest level in seven years, and the young are the most consistent presence as older groups of spectators drop away.
On a Sunday afternoon, Alarcón must kill two young bulls by driving a sword through their shoulder blades, puncturing the animals’ aortas. He is cheered on by hundreds of children and teenagers among the 8,700 people who turn out to watch from the stands. In an age of almost unlimited entertainment choices, it’s a serious statement.
It is now firmly a minority interest. Just under 2% of Spaniards attended a bullfight in the 2021-22 season, according to Culture Ministry statistics, but among them teenagers aged 15-19 were the largest group. Those aged over 75 were the least likely to attend.
The U.N. Committee on the Rights of the Child urged Spain in 2018 to ban children from bullfights to shield them from “exposure to violence.” So far, the call has had little effect.
While bullfighting is nowhere close to drawing the crowds of half a century ago, it remains an important, if divisive, symbol of Spanish identity in the country’s south and central regions. Audiences are smaller, fans argue, but more committed.
Miriam Cabas is a 21-year-old bullfighter from the southern Andalusia region, and one of just 250 women who are registered as professionals in Spain. She has watched the profile of the crowds shift since she was a child in the stands. “It is true that bullfighting has decreased,” she admitted. “But right now, I perceive that the youth is booming and people are eager to know and go to the bullrings.”
For some right-wing youth, proudly associating oneself with symbols of traditional Spain, like sporting the colors of the flag on bracelets and polo shirts, or attending bullfights, has become fashionable.
But Alarcón grew up in a family that had no interest in bullfighting, with parents who were horrified when he wanted to join a school to learn the practice as a teenager.
Beyond the bullfighters themselves, the industry employs thousands of ranchers, plus event organizers and promoters, and even bullfighting critics who still write up reports from the events in prestigious national newspapers. “Álvaro Alarcón took two young bulls with fuel and momentum,” read a recent report in the El País daily, which noted that Alarcón was awarded with an ear severed from a felled bull.
África Calderón García, 20, is a seamstress for a Madrid tailor who crafts the intricate “traje de luces,” or suit of lights, that bullfighters wear into the ring. She grew up attending bullfights with her grandmother and will continue the tradition, though she considers herself someone who cares deeply for animals.
“It is an art form; it is Spanish culture,” she said on a break from weaving white beads onto a bright blue shoulder section. JENNIFER O’MAHONY, MADRID, MDT/AP
