Goya's black paintings are the underside of his tapestries. You turn around The blind chicken and a coven appears. The smiling dances of the majos become duels with clubs. The old Goya removes the masks and wigs from the young goyas, and the enlightened and gallant ingenuity of eighteenth-century Madrid becomes the bloody flaps of the nineteenth. As with the Christmas lottery.
At this time the announcement is presented, which has passed the bald retirement to compete each year in aesthetic and narrative ambition. They are small Christmas stories (this year, Javier Ruiz, especially Dickensian) very well rolled that become themselves in national events. The best part of Spain, the most talented and creative, strives to please and surprise everyone, as did the young Goya with his tapestries of majos. But, after a few weeks, the reverse arrives. The painter deadens and suddenly becomes old and resuscitates every December 22 to fill Spain with black paintings. All the delicacy, humility and sensitivity that were poured into the ad are transformed into a freak parade where the children of San Ildefonso are the smallest and most discreet of the numbers.
The country goes crazy for a few hours. His face is deformed and his voice is broken. Cava cheap drips down the sidewalks at the gates of lottery administrations and a lot of people celebrate descamisada that will finally plug those holes. Of all the Spanish religions, the Christmas lottery is the most pagan, and perhaps the only unanimous. Thanks to TV, he can redeem himself from his ugliness in the form of a story, but soon the screams and the orgy spoil everything. Let's enjoy the tapestry while they leave us, before they uncork the first bottle of cava in the lottery administration number of which you know.