The matadors

At work, I am known as "The Matador." By one person. It started innocently enough. Over beers one night, I explained my fondness for two paintings I've had since college. Both of them belong in the Museum of Bad Art, right next to the Paint by Numbers Last Supper.



The one on the left was obtained/stolen from an apartment basement. The one on the right was purchased at a thrift store to match the one on the left. Because really, how can you get by with only ONE matador painting? Several things are striking about these paintings: The lack of detail, the apparent blood splattering, the very real mud spatters (not really visible in this photo, sorry), and damaged frame of matador #1.



The gilded wooden frame, the strangely billowing cape that seems to have wrapped itself around matador #2.



And I, I am matador #3.