PROFILE
The reeducation of designer Gabbie Sarenas
Gabbie Sarenas is learning how to dance with uncertainty by respecting how her brilliant mind works
Words by SEPTEMBER GRACE MAHINO Photos by COLIN DANCEL
The way Gabbie Sarenas sees it, her brain operates at two speeds: It’s going at either an unrelentingly fast clip or a painstakingly slow pace. “There’s never an in-between.”
And for a good part of the past couple of years, her brain felt resolutely set to “static.” “I had been trying to look for inspiration but wala talaga—nothing,” she recalls. “I couldn’t pull out anything; I honestly thought my brain had turned into mush.”
It was a scary place to be for the 35-year-old. Sarenas’ brand strives to make indigenous textiles and local artisanship relevant to and resonant with contemporary times through delicate embroidery and layered volume play.
As a designer and a business owner, Sarenas has always been purposeful when producing anything. From putting together her first collection and establishing her eponymous label in 2016 to keeping it running during a pandemic, everything she does begins with intensive research, culling details and inspiration from history, and looking at her work as part of a larger narrative. “I always ask myself, ‘What’s the problem I’m trying to solve? What’s the void I plan to fill?’” Describing her process as akin to preparing for a thesis defense, Sarenas always makes sure that each collection she releases can withstand scrutiny.
No wonder that not being in the right mindset to even get anything started was terrifying.
She eventually realized that she needed to follow her brain’s cues and intentionally stop to take stock of where she was. “I was trying to avoid having to listen to what my brain and my body were telling me—and to accept that. To acknowledge that I’ve been running myself ragged,” Sarenas now reflects.
“It got to a point where I finally wondered why I kept looking for ideas elsewhere when I could’ve been looking at what’s in front of me.” A change in pace and perspective turned out to be the key, and the lack of inspiration became the inspiration for her latest collection “Off the Record.”
“I’m coming to terms with who I am and learning how to have my emotional side be friends with my logical side.”
As a designer and a business owner, Sarenas has always been purposeful when producing anything. From putting together her first collection and establishing her eponymous label in 2016 to keeping it running during a pandemic, everything she does begins with intensive research, culling details and inspiration from history, and looking at her work as part of a larger narrative. “I always ask myself, ‘What’s the problem I’m trying to solve? What’s the void I plan to fill?’” Describing her process as akin to preparing for a thesis defense, Sarenas always makes sure that each collection she releases can withstand scrutiny.
No wonder that not being in the right mindset to even get anything started was terrifying.
Sarenas’ brand strives to make indigenous textiles and local artisanship relevant to and resonant with contemporary times through delicate embroidery and layered volume play.
She eventually realized that she needed to follow her brain’s cues and intentionally stop to take stock of where she was. “I was trying to avoid having to listen to what my brain and my body were telling me—and to accept that. To acknowledge that I’ve been running myself ragged,” Sarenas now reflects.
“It got to a point where I finally wondered why I kept looking for ideas elsewhere when I could’ve been looking at what’s in front of me.” A change in pace and perspective turned out to be the key, and the lack of inspiration became the inspiration for her latest collection “Off the Record.” “I’m coming to terms with who I am and learning how to have my emotional side be friends with my logical side.”
A 12-piece collection that was presented in December at Finale Art File, “Off the Record” serves as the designer’s “breakup letter” to her younger self: “[A] mourning [of] the loss of [her] best version...who has gotten her far in this journey...[with a] hope that she will eventually regain her former self, [even though] the void keeps getting bigger the more she exhausts what remains of her,” the collection’s notes read. Sarenas was initially wary about the write-up revealing the depth of her vulnerability, but her show director Melvin Mojica’s encouragement convinced her to go with it. “I’m coming to terms with who I am and learning how to have my emotional side be friends with my logical side,” she admits.
In keeping with the collection’s honesty, “Off the Record”’s presentation also veered from the usual fashion show format. Instead of a parade of fully styled models, Sarenas would alternately approach her two all-black-clad models (one of whom was her friend Jo Ann Bitagcol), to drape and arrange an item from the collection on them: an apron, a vest, a waist belt. Nostalgic ballads played in the background, their swelling melodies reminiscent of ’80s Easy Sunday playlists. The staging, the pace, and the hushed sense of watching an artist be in her natural element seemed to demonstrate to the audience that as finished as the collection already was, an evolution was still taking place. The show concluded with Sarenas taking a bow, Earth, Wind & Fire singing “I can’t escape the thought of all that might have been/ every now and then” in the background—an encapsulation of her longing-filled farewell to her former self.
The designer won the Pura Escurdia Award at the recently concluded Ternocon with her highly versatile piña and piña silk pieces that feature flat embroidery and 3D stripes and florettes. Photo by Takuya Morita/Ternocon
“Off the Record,” unveiled in December at Finale Art File, features 12 new reconfigurable garments made from the Sarenas‘ signature mix of piña, hand embroidery, special buttons, and one-off fabrics.
The designer won the Pura Escurdia Award at the recently concluded Ternocon with her highly versatile piña and piña silk pieces that feature flat embroidery and 3D stripes and florettes. Photo by Takuya Morita/Ternocon
“Off the Record,” unveiled in December at Finale Art File, features 12 new reconfigurable garments made from the Sarenas‘ signature mix of piña, hand embroidery, special buttons, and one-off fabrics.
That space between what was and what’s yet to come can feel uncomfortable—if not painful—to anyone who has built then lost some semblance of security and stability in their life. Sarenas admits that the first two years of the pandemic were tough in terms of accepting and adjusting to the changes she’s been through and the nebulous in-between space she has since been in. She had to make the conscious decision to learn more about herself and how her brain works, relying on cognitive behavioral therapy and reading about how Buddhist monks live to cope. She reveals, “I told my therapist that [“Off the Record”] is like the culminating activity [of the past two years], and she replied that I’m not bleeding anymore. I’m no longer in the emergency room; I’m now in the acceptance stage.
“Everything [in the collection] was in pieces because my brain was in pieces,” she continues. “When put together, they looked fine; it made sense. But they’re not puzzle pieces meant to fit together. A lot of their grooves match, but there are still cracks and spaces in between.”
“I’m not saying I’m now dancing with [the way my brain works] but I acknowledge that it’s different now; I’m a different person from who I was. I’ve learned that I must acknowledge what’s happening to me, get to know it, be friends with it—then dance with it.“
“I’m not saying I’m now dancing with [the way my brain works] but I acknowledge that it’s different now; I’m a different person from who I was. I’ve learned that I must acknowledge what’s happening to me, get to know it, be friends with it—then dance with it.“
That view can also be applied to Sarenas’ approach to her design career. As intentional as she is with her work, she still gets slightly sheepish at the acknowledgment of how she has carved her place in the industry. “I’m flattered when people say that; I still can’t believe it, honestly. It’s something I didn’t really expect at 16.” Back then, she’d imagined herself being the total Corporate Girl, immersed in the full fantasy of “a life spent wearing blazers and heels from 9 to 5, having a corporate email address and insurance. And an office pantry.”
Instead, she’s running a business built on her vision of preserving and innovating generational Filipino methods. Gabbie Sarenas, the label, is frequently described as “a love letter to the Philippines.” From delicate embroidery to the layered volume play that can be created from indigenous textiles, the brand strives to make local artisanship relevant to and resonant with contemporary times. Its pace as a business also fits the purposeful nature of Sarenas’ work, with only one collection released per year. It’s a reasonable output for the amount of prep she does. “I put everything I could in them in one go because each one must cover all the bases: What’s its use? What’s the historical data and inspiration behind it?’ Though I enjoy it, it’s a lot of work for one person.”
But while she has found a groove that both fulfills her sense of purpose and keeps her small enterprise operating, Sarenas is hyper-aware of the cracks and gaps in her path—and joining the recently concluded Ternocon 3 had only highlighted them.
The designer wearing one of the pieces from “Off the Record,“ a detachable pleated piña apron/skirt with assorted buttons, lace, and embroidery.
The designer wearing one of the pieces from “Off the Record,“ a detachable pleated piña apron/skirt with assorted buttons, lace, and embroidery.
As per her style, Sarenas had immersed herself in terno-making to prepare for the competition, enrolling at Fashion+Arts+Business (F.A.B.) Creatives Manila in August to be taught by no less than Jojie Lloren. “I had to start from scratch.” She laughs a little before adding, “I tend to break a lot of rules when making clothes because I really don’t like [offering] the basics. But Sir Jojie taught me that I have to learn the rules first before I could bend them, and I’m beginning to practice that approach to everything.”
Not a lot of established designers would risk their resources and reputation to join (and potentially lose) a competition, but Sarenas highly recommends it. Although she had to balance Ternocon 3’s schedule with working on “Off the Record”—as well as getting sidelined by COVID in October—participating presented her with an opportunity to expand her knowledge. “I want to create something bigger than I am. Even then, I always have to remember the ‘why,’ and I can find that in the past. It’s a delicate balance of looking at what has been and what’s next.”
“I want to create something bigger than I am. Even then, I always have to remember the ‘why,’ and I can find that in the past. It’s a delicate balance of looking at what has been and what’s next.”
That math, specifically geometry, has never been her strongest suit made learning terno pattern-making extra daunting, but after months of classes (and through persistent practice), she’s become adept at it. “It’s not that I’ve learned everything through Ternocon, but joining it revealed what I needed to learn—and it revealed my desire to build my technical knowledge further.” The cherry on top was her placing second in the competition, winning the Pura Escurdia Award with her highly versatile piña and piña silk pieces that feature flat embroidery and 3D stripes and florettes.
“I would often wonder, ‘What if [I] ended up in the corporate world? Would [I] last there?‘ I don’t think I would‘ve. It‘s a different multiverse: a life spent wearing blazers and heels in a 9-to-5 job.“
Another gap she’s keen to fill is learning how to keep her business sustainable, with her team of eight depending on it for their livelihood. It’s the only regret Sarenas has in never experiencing corporate life. “I could’ve applied anything I would’ve learned to my business. How do you plan your growth as a CEO? How do you get investors? It’d be nice to get some basic knowledge.”
Yet as much as these details and the long-term view can get her bogged in anxiety, Sarenas is mindful of reining in her thoughts lest she burns herself out again with worry. Remembering her creative purpose also helps her take a necessary pause to figure out her next steps. “I want to create something bigger than I am. Even then, I always have to remember the ‘why,’ and I can find that in the past. It’s a delicate balance of looking at what has been and what’s next.” Gabbie Sarenas wears her own creation: an empire cut long dress with bell sleeves made of piña silk with stripes and hand embroidered sampaguita motif.
Gabbie Sarenas wears her own creation: an empire cut long dress with bell sleeves made of piña silk with stripes and hand embroidered sampaguita motif.
What’s definitely next is this month’s “Off the Record”-based pop-up at Guava Sketches. It’ll have the black versions of each piece made in piña cotton while those with prints would come in vintage fabrics from Sarenas’ personal collection. They’ll also feature some of the buttons she has collected during her travels.
2022 shot from zero to 100 for Sarenas, who had emerged from immense burnout to find herself managing, once again, an overflowing plate. But instead of maintaining this warped speed, she’s now more conscious about checking in with herself and respecting where she’s at, including the uncertainty.
“If you have a very good idea and can milk it... if it stays the same, then that‘s it. But if you innovate it, paanakin mo, then that can work. There are a lot of designers around and people will eventually notice if you keep making the same things. Innovation is challenging but education—going back to school and learning new techniques—helps with it.“
“If you have a very good idea and can milk it... if it stays the same, then that‘s it. But if you innovate it, paanakin mo, then that can work. There are a lot of designers around and people will eventually notice if you keep making the same things. Innovation is challenging but education—going back to school and learning new techniques—helps with it.“
“I’m not saying I’m now dancing with [the way my brain works] but I acknowledge that it’s different now; I’m a different person from who I was. I’ve learned that I must acknowledge what’s happening to me, get to know it, be friends with it—then dance with it. I’m still in the first phase; building my legacy is a long-term project I’m not yet prepared to start. I’m just focusing on what’s in front of me.” Plenty of cracks and gaps still lay ahead, but Sarenas trusts that her vision, her purpose, her psyche—her brain, in short—would keep her on track as it always has. “On the taste or aesthetic level, I know where I’m going.” ●
Shot on location at Finale Art File
Photography by Colin Dancel assisted by Yel Dela Paz
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Video by Samantha Ong
Produced by Christian San Jose
Makeup by Pam Robes
Special thanks to Finale Art File
What’s a reasonable price to pay for a T-shirt? P850 may be a reach for a fast fashion-obsessed generation used to buying trendy clothes for cheap. So when a Twitter user questioned the price of Filipino designer RJ Santos’s latest design for his brand Randolf—a retro-looking ringer T-shirt with the words “Good Boy” on it—people were quick to compare its price with that of other easily accessible brands.
One Twitter user mentioned that a similar design is only P129 in other local brands. The young designer quickly retorted in a quote tweet, stating that this mindset of comparing an independent brand’s pricing to that of mass produced clothes is an issue plaguing the local indie design scene.
“Isa ’to sa problema sa Pinas ng mga indie brands. ’Yung ganitong [pag-iisip] na kinukumpara kami sa presyo ng mga mass-produced items na akala mo pareho kami ng overhead, labor, at iba pang expenses,” Santos said. (Overhead in production refers to the cost of producing a product.)
(This kind of mindset where our prices are compared to that of mass-produced items, as if we have the same overhead, labor, and other expenses, is one of the problems indie brands face in the Philippines.)
Another user argued that even for an indie brand the T-shirt is overpriced, comparing it to another small business that allegedly sells clothes for a quarter of the price. To this Santos clapped back, “Siguro kasi ayokong bawasan at baratin ’yung mga gumagawa ng damit namin 🙂 Pasenya ka na ha.”
(Perhaps it’s because I want to give the people who make our clothes a livable wage 🙂 Sorry about that.)
Santos also debunked a tweet that alleged his markup is at 260 percent: “This is actually wrong. The smaller the production capacity, the bigger your overhead is.”
In 2017, Santos won the first Bench Design Award along with two other designers who then represented the country at Tokyo Fashion Week. Photo courtesy of RJ Santos
Other independent designers backed Santos. In a tweet, fellow Bench Design Awards alumnus Jaggy Glarino broke down the economics of running a small business. He explained that limited manufacturing capacity results in higher production cost, hence the higher retail value.
Proudrace’s creative director and Santos’s close friend Rik Rasos, meanwhile, dissected the local brands being compared with Randolf: one is produced locally while the other outsources labor overseas, but both reach more people through affordable prices.
“I think the real problem is diminishing independent brands’ brand equity. You’re not just paying for the T-shirt, you’re also paying for the story that comes with it.” Both Proudrace and Randolf got their start in local pop-ups, selling designs that come in small batches or are made to order.
“[Every time] we make a sale we are so happy because it means we can continue providing ethical work for our production team,” Rasos added.
Randolf’s “Destination 0” collection from 2019. Photographed by Joseph Pascual
Randolf’s pop culture-obsessed brand first came to the scene in 2013 with its colorful and cheeky designs that would feature celebrities like the Kardashians, as well as tattoo-inspired graphics laid over materials like silk, tulle, satin, and even piña cloth for its off-kilter custom barongs.
In a 2018 interview with Scout magazine, Santos said his biggest goal was to have a physical store and a company. He then added, “But my ultimate goal is to be able to actually employ people, provide a living, so I could support more people.”
He currently employs in-house sewers and works with Laguna-based embroiderers for barongs. The rest—design, marketing, website management, customer service—Santos handles himself.
Randolf’s custom barongs are embroidered by artisans from Lumban, Laguna. Photo courtesy of Randolf
Made to order has always been Randolf’s bread and butter, but because of the pandemic, it had to strategize and be more aggressive with its ready-to-wear selection that includes the “Good Boy” tee, boxer shorts, swim briefs, socks, and face masks.
In January 2020, he produced ringer T-shirts similar to the “Good Boy” tee but in red. At P1,180, it was specifically made to raise funds for his mother’s medical bills. At the onset of the pandemic, he also made personal protective equipment (PPE) for frontliners, as well as printed face masks that pledged N95 masks to medical workers for every piece sold.
How much should a T-shirt cost really?
Randolf’s critics were right, however. You can get a shirt for less than P200. But at what cost?
For a piece of clothing to be sold at that price, a lot of corners have to be cut while still ensuring enough margins. As recent mass consciousness about transparency in clothing production reveals, these cuts are usually made at the expense of laborers, sewers, and other manual workers who slave away at factories for barely decent wages.
“I don’t want the pieces I make to be disposable to people,” Santos said.
Patronizing small brands means a liveable wage for its employees—or a source of income, period, during a precarious time when unemployment is rampant.
“When you buy one T-shirt, you’re basically allowing that brand to grow and produce more items that will give its employees more opportunities and work,” Santos explained to Nolisoli.ph.
Such demand can also encourage aspiring designers to build their own brands—as it did for Santos when he was just starting out—which in turn will employ more people.
In a follow-up tweet, Santos recalled his start as a designer selling printed T-shirts and bags to fund a full collection, all while dealing with naysayers who said he wouldn’t make it. “Nagsimula ako sa Escolta na walang nagkwestyon sa presyo ng mga benta ko. Bakit ako papa-apekto sa inyo eh sila patuloy na sumusuporta?”
(I started in Escolta without patrons questioning the price of my designs. Why should I be affected by your comments when I have people who continue to support my brand?)
When first asked if he wanted to publish his side for this piece, Santos replied “Yes, please! We need to educate people on mass production and how it badly affects low-wage workers just to make a P100 shirt.”
He did just that with an P850 T-shirt, a series of tweets, and a little help from friends.
