SMALL PEOPLE: COMIC BULLFIGHTING
In the shocking enormity of the record set down by my friend, photographer Benito Roman, there is not only the planet – or limbo – of dwarves, their havoc and calamities, but also, with piercing cries, the song of a man and woman for whom laughter permutes into pain, growing and growing in the cruel promixity to a fellow creature whose heart is rotting little by little in the casket of his chest. That song of pure and unadorned beauty is what most thrills the memory of our astonished gaze. Yes; from Bosch and Valdés Leal to Don Pepe Solana and Picasso, we find ourselves guilty of everyone’s pain. And here there is no room for pretence for we are all corrupt and condemned.
Benito Roman’s characters – his puppets, glove-puppets, marionettes, tumblers, dwarves dressed in bullfighter costumes – do not earn the little bread they eat by their sweat, but from the sould of those who stare at them, stupefied, or merry and regurgitating those foul-smelling comments that make them feel sickened before their consciences feel remorse.
Camilo José Cela