PROFILE
Bubk’s Gabe Cruz takes us on a journey through light
The furniture designer shines a light on Bubk’s creative process, his most challenging project, and the comfort of working with his own two hands
Words by ANDREIANA YUVALLOS Photos by ROB FROGOSO
Gabe Cruz of Bubk Studio is a man comfortable working with his own two hands. From his unexpected road to making deftly crafted pieces of furniture to being the complete and total opposite of chronically online, he shines an easygoing spotlight on his creative process and shares a bit more of himself in the process.
There’s a palpable sense of passion in Bubk’s work. Aside from the craftsmanship that goes into each piece, you can also feel the hard work, emotion, and architectural aesthetic when you see their chair or lamp. It also helps that there’s a human touch to it (each piece is mostly made by hand) despite its heavy industrial feel.
“If I can make it myself, I’ll make it,” said Cruz on the construction process behind each piece of furniture.
Gabe is a furniture designer and the technical half of the studio. As a graduate of industrial design and someone who describes fiddling with materials as his version of “doodling,” he’s always gravitated towards making things by hand. Even in his spare time, he likes keeping himself busy by fiddling with whatever materials he finds lying around.
He presents himself as a very easygoing person. But with the precise and straightforward way he talks about his creative process and the high standards he’s set for any work the studio puts out, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of passion for creation under the surface.
He and his brother photographer Geric Cruz have worked together since around 2015 to make their design dreams come true. “Growing up in Malate and seeing the old houses, buildings and being surrounded by that type of beautiful, busy, grungy energy of the place is something I draw influence from.”
Both brothers have an inclination towards creating, with Geric choosing photography as his medium and Gabe, design. For the younger Cruz, what drew him into furniture is the joy of creating something functional with his own hands.
“We also saw it as a way to try and make something that could be a tangible representation of a feeling or emotion… something that can play with senses and [we enjoy seeing] how people react to it,” Gabe explained.
Though furniture making has always been on the table for the duo, the path to concretely forming Bubk was not as straightforward as making a single decision.
Gabe recalled, “I had just left my [design] job [at Estudio Ruiz] and wanted to take a break and during that time. I would just design my own furniture, making 3D models and scale models.” The chair was Bubk's first foray into consigning with stores and getting their furniture out there. The opportunity came after Gabe applied for a job with the gallery Artelano 11, which offered him a consignment deal instead. Photo courtesy of Bubk
When Gabe decided it was time for him to find a new job, he applied for a design role at designer Eric Paras’ Artelano 11 (A-11), a 1950s compound/showroom known for its Art Deco and Midcentury modern-inspired pieces. Instead of a job, though, he was presented with another opportunity, one that would give Bubk their well-deserved start.
“We were given the opportunity to consign a chair that we had made in 2019. So, we took that as a sign that maybe we can actually try and start this thing we’ve been talking about for a while.” The chair in question was the BC-01 Chair, a geometric, mahogany structure with stainless steel accents.
After creating their chair, what came next was the steel desk lamp, a result of the brothers’ fascination with the affects of light.
“We’ve been thinking about making [a lamp] for a while, and we were also interested in how light can alter the atmosphere in a room, by changing its temperature and luminance,” Gabe said. All of Bubk’s pieces, the BC-01 chair and steel desk lamp, have a signature style. The structural, streamline, industrial quality shared by these pieces come from a mix of personal experience and external inspiration. The furniture designer attributes these features to a life spent in different places.
“Growing up in Malate and seeing the old houses, buildings and being surrounded by that type of beautiful, busy, grungy energy of the place is something I draw influence from. Spending summers as a child in my lola’s house in Bacolod. I also think that living in the US for a few years also allowed me to experience the place and the culture,” he said.
The final piece was moving back to the Philippines to work at industrial designer Stanley Ruiz’s design consultancy Estudio Ruiz. His time there taught him about the design process and the practical tools of the trade. There’s a palpable sense of passion in Bubk’s work. Aside from the craftsmanship that goes into each piece, you can also feel the hard work, emotion, and architectural aesthetic when you see their chair or lamp. It also helps that there’s a human touch to it (each piece is mostly made by hand) despite its heavy industrial feel.
“If I can make it myself, I’ll make it,” said Cruz on the construction process behind each piece of furniture.
Gabe is a furniture designer and the technical half of the studio. As a graduate of industrial design and someone who describes fiddling with materials as his version of “doodling,” he’s always gravitated towards making things by hand. Even in his spare time, he likes keeping himself busy by fiddling with whatever materials he finds lying around.
He presents himself as a very easygoing person. But with the precise and straightforward way he talks about his creative process and the high standards he’s set for any work the studio puts out, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of passion for creation under the surface.
“Growing up in Malate and seeing the old houses, buildings and being surrounded by that type of beautiful, busy, grungy energy of the place is something I draw influence from.”
He and his brother photographer Geric Cruz have worked together since around 2015 to make their design dreams come true.
Both brothers have an inclination towards creating, with Geric choosing photography as his medium and Gabe, design. For the younger Cruz, what drew him into furniture is the joy of creating something functional with his own hands.
“We also saw it as a way to try and make something that could be a tangible representation of a feeling or emotion… something that can play with senses and [we enjoy seeing] how people react to it,” Gabe explained.
Though furniture making has always been on the table for the duo, the path to concretely forming Bubk was not as straightforward as making a single decision.
Gabe recalled, “I had just left my [design] job [at Estudio Ruiz] and wanted to take a break and during that time. I would just design my own furniture, making 3D models and scale models.” The chair was Bubk's first foray into consigning with stores and getting their furniture out there. The opportunity came after Gabe applied for a job with the gallery Artelano 11, which offered him a consignment deal instead. Photo courtesy of Bubk
When Gabe decided it was time for him to find a new job, he applied for a design role at designer Eric Paras’ Artelano 11 (A-11), a 1950s compound/showroom known for its Art Deco and Midcentury modern-inspired pieces. Instead of a job, though, he was presented with another opportunity, one that would give Bubk their well-deserved start.
“We were given the opportunity to consign a chair that we had made in 2019. So, we took that as a sign that maybe we can actually try and start this thing we’ve been talking about for a while.” The chair in question was the BC-01 Chair, a geometric, mahogany structure with stainless steel accents.
After creating their chair, what came next was the steel desk lamp, a result of the brothers’ fascination with the affects of light.
“We’ve been thinking about making [a lamp] for a while, and we were also interested in how light can alter the atmosphere in a room, by changing its temperature and luminance,” Gabe said. “We also saw it as a way to try and make something that can play with senses and [we enjoy seeing] how people react to it.”
All of Bubk’s pieces, the BC-01 chair and steel desk lamp, have a signature style. The structural, streamline, industrial quality shared by these pieces come from a mix of personal experience and external inspiration. The furniture designer attributes these features to a life spent in different places.
“Growing up in Malate and seeing the old houses, buildings and being surrounded by that type of beautiful, busy, grungy energy of the place is something I draw influence from. Spending summers as a child in my lola’s house in Bacolod. I also think that living in the US for a few years also allowed me to experience the place and the culture,” he said.
The final piece was moving back to the Philippines to work at industrial designer Stanley Ruiz’s design consultancy Estudio Ruiz. His time there taught him about the design process and the practical tools of the trade. Synergistic, creative progression
After getting Bubk up and running in 2019, the Cruzes got their creative process down pat, though there’s always room for flexibility.
The design or theme aspect of ideation usually starts with Gabe. He works on his initial ideas and then discusses them with his brother.
“Sometimes it starts with an idea or something interesting that we come across. Other times we start by being drawn to a certain material so we start experimenting with it or other times ideas occur when we play with samples and other objects lying around the studio,” he explained. “At first, the lamp didn't look like that,” Gabe admitted. “The light wasn't diffusing properly and it didn't look like what we thought it would. We just had to adjust to all the curveballs.” Photo courtesy of Bubk
“At first, the lamp didn't look like that,” Gabe admitted. “The light wasn't diffusing properly and it didn't look like what we thought it would. We just had to adjust to all the curveballs.” Photo courtesy of Bubk
After the ideation process, they start to work with different compositions and forms until something more solid takes shape. Gabe then works on the technical side with the use of 3D modeling and prototyping to ensure that measurements and proportions are correct.
But the process isn’t always linear. According to Gabe, even when a project is mostly done or completely finished, there are still improvements to make. In their dynamic, Geric acts as a sounding board, while he goes and pieces things together thanks to his technical experience.
“Sometimes it starts with an idea or something interesting that we come across. Other times we start by being drawn to a certain material so we start experimenting with it.”
“[My brother] sees things that I don’t see. Let’s say when I feel like a project is done—sometimes he’s like, ‘Why don’t you change this thing to this?’ And when it’s done it makes the difference talaga,” he said of their working relationship. “We have that kind of trust with each other.”
After the piece is complete, he then hands it over to Geric to photograph. A refreshingly intimate approach
Something that sets Bubk apart from other brands in the same sphere is their approach to business. Instead of commissioning marketing strategies and amassing a large online following, they’ve decided to take the more small-scale and intimate route—making genuine connections with fellow creatives.
After A-11, Bubk’s organic approach to things continued when they were able to consign with lifestyle boutique shop Guava Sketches through his friend fellow designer Therese Regalado. Aside from designing and building his own furniture, Gabe shared that he also works with Regalado on some of her pieces. “[With the lamp] we were trying to find that feeling.”
“[With the lamp] we were trying to find that feeling.”
While working together on a project for Guava Sketches, he was introduced to its general manager Joan Cantemprate. Through Regalado and Cantemprate’s help, Bubk was able to reach a wider market with their presence in the store.
Their focus on word of mouth doesn’t mean they don’t acknowledge the power of a concrete strategy and social media, though. Gabe confessed it’s just not their forte.
“We don’t think it’s a bad idea to have a strategy and all that but sometimes, that can hinder you from moving forward. Sometimes it can discourage you,” he said. “We just do our thing, see where it takes us, and then kumbaga, we move from there.”
"I decided to do furniture because I realized that I enjoyed working with my hands and making things that can be functional," Gabe says of his decision to pursue making furniture.
Journeying through light
Of the two pieces in Bubk’s portfolio, the steel desk lamp, according to Gabe, is by and far the most challenging piece they’ve worked on.
“The chair wasn’t as challenging because you have standard measurements. But this one, we didn’t really have much experience,” he admitted.
The lamp is a low fixture with a layered disk of resin and glassine paper surrounding a central bulb. The disk sits atop a cylindrical stainless steel base. When switched on, you can turn the lamp’s knob to slowly spread light, warming the room and changing the atmosphere.
He shared that unlike the mahogany and stainless steel chair, the lamp had many technical design aspects that needed to be polished and perfected. Nonetheless, it felt special to the duo because of the journey it took them on.
“At first, the look of that lamp wasn’t really like that. It was kind of different. So when we made the [prototype], we were like, ‘Crap! Okay. The light doesn’t diffuse properly’ or it wasn’t what we thought.” “Just the small things that some might not notice but they’re the things that make a difference. We really value that.”
There was no plan B for them, though. Instead, they diligently worked through the curveballs the lamp threw at them through experimentation.
“We tried experimenting with different fabrics, and how to apply it to the lamp... We’re very [detailed] when it comes to how light diffuses and its softness,” he explained.
Instead of fabric, though, they went with hand crumpled paper and manually poured resin. Even the electrical wiring of the lamp was done by Gabe as a personal challenge to himself. The only component they had help with was the steel base, which they had fabricated by metal workers.
Ultimately, they wanted to make the lamp an experience in itself, which is no easy feat. Gabe saw the romantic, mood-changing quality of light and wanted to make sure this feature was amplified, hence the option to tweak its intensity through the knob.
The journey doesn’t just end with making the lamp, though. Natural wear through age and time were also considered during the design and crafting process. From a shiny finish on the steel and the crisp white color of the paper used in the lamp, the steel will tarnish and the paper will yellow with time. These details bring the lamp to life. Photo courtesy of Bubk
From a shiny finish on the steel and the crisp white color of the paper used in the lamp, the steel will tarnish and the paper will yellow with time. These details bring the lamp to life. Photo courtesy of Bubk
“[With the lamp] we were trying to find that ‘feeling’. But we also considered over time, the more you touch it, the nicer it will look, like how it looks when the steel gets old after touching it. Kasi the steel now, it looks a little shiny because it’s new. And then the paper will turn a little more yellow when it gets older, so it’s going to help the glow,” he explained.
“Just the small things that some might not notice but they’re the things that make a difference. We really value that,” he added. Keeping the lights on
While Bubk is a relatively new brand, the potential for growth is there.
The duo behind the designs say that while there’s no planned and paved route ahead, longevity is something that they’re hoping for. When asked about what his hope for the future of Bubk looks like, Gabe gave a simple answer:
“[I hope] that it’s still there. That it’s still relevant. And that it still keeps its quality.”
Part III of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Makers SpecialBubk’s stainless steel desk lamp is available at Guava Sketches
Cover photography by Rob Frogoso
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Produced by Andreiana Yuvallos
Special thanks to Guava Sketches
PROFILE
Wareco’s Therese Regalado goes beyond the limits of light and lightness
With a new six-piece collection of rattan furniture reinforced with metal and glass, the maker rethinks the material bounds of creativity
Words by CHRISTIAN SAN JOSE Photos by ROB FROGOSO
Therese Regalado of Wareco is a self-professed overachiever, a woman with an obsessive learnedness that enables her to have a can-do-it-all spirit. Within our six-hour interaction, she talked about her love for pushing materials to their limits, an Art Deco house she recently visited in Bacolod, and talking to a Magic 8 Ball-like tukô that she believes was taken along with the bamboo she had sourced from Rizal.
Rheuma lamp. 2021. Bamboo, stainless steel frame and hardware, T5 12" 4 watts LED bulb with receptacle (daylight), electrical wires, switch, and plug. Photo from Silverlens Gallery
Rheuma lamp. 2021. Bamboo, stainless steel frame and hardware, T5 12" 4 watts LED bulb with receptacle (daylight), electrical wires, switch, and plug. Photo from Silverlens Gallery
She calls herself a maker, since an artist, in her opinion, is another level in itself. This despite having a solo exhibit at Silverlens Galleries in 2021, where she explored the possibilities of silk and bamboo, the latter a material she is very fond of because it “feels alive.” “Every time they are bent and they respond—depending on the moisture content of each pole/cut piece—it’s as if I am given permission to shape or if the bend is not possible then their limitations are set,” she explained. “There’s a pulse.”
Bamboo has been long prized in Philippine furniture making for its accessibility and, to quote a fable involving a very showy mango tree and an unassuming bamboo tree, pliability. For her part, the alumna of local furniture workshop E. Murio uses the hollow vessels for purposes other than what it is traditionally meant for. In lieu of a papag of splintered bamboo shoots, she keeps them whole, working around its hollowness, or deconstructing it only to reconstruct and reimagine the possibilities of something sprouting out of it, something like the myth of Malakas and Maganda.
“It’s hard to work on stuff when you’re only talking to yourself.”
Inside her room at her family’s home is a relic of her time at E. Murio: a bamboo segment carved to reveal its insides illuminated by a light that can be obscured or set free by a movable panel. In 2021, the same movable mechanism made out of bent bamboo rotating around a central fluorescent tube light figured in her work for Bangkok Biennial.
If it isn’t obvious by now, lighting is her favorite object to make because “light to me also feels alive,” she said. “It also has a pulse which I translate to breathing.” She referenced an interview of designer Issey Miyake’s former right hand Makiko Minagawa—shared by her artist friend Ana La O’—where the textile designer says, “But as long as there’s sun and light, various textures are born.”
Wareco’s six-piece collection is not merely made out of rattan but is also intentionally forged with other materials like metal and glass, as a sort of reinforcement.
Founded in 2013, Therese’s brand Wareco has evolved from what it initially came to be known for: first, for utilitarian tote bags with which she wanted to end the grueling search for stuff inside, and during the pandemic, for reclaimed Japanese wooden box drawers sourced from surplus shops.
Guava Sketches, a purveyor of local and international novelty items, fashion, furniture, and design, was one of the first stores to stock Wareco in 2018. Its general manager Joan Cantemprate remembers following Therese since her time as E. Murio's production manager. “I love her works and her passion for designing objects,” Joan told Nolisoli.ph in an interview. “She is involved in every aspect from ideas to the process to actual production.”
This is partly because Wareco is a one-woman team, though that doesn’t mean Regalado’s a lone island of ideas. She admits despite a sense of stolid self-reliance, “It’s hard to work on stuff when you’re only talking to yourself.”
Over the course of the last two years, she’s worked with clients on custom furniture orders and collaborated with friends such as designer Carl Jan Cruz to create one-offs. Last year, the two reimagined the iconic Ishinomaki stool from Japanese furniture brand Ishinomaki Lab to celebrate its 10th anniversary. Therese darkened the stool’s light finish and gave it red streaks to match the cushion made out of Cruz’s studio-developed rib gabao fabric.
“She’s always game, doing her thing without being imposing… and very open to things,” Cruz said of Regalado. When he reached out to her, he said it came out of knowing each other’s expertise, a natural evolution of their friendship. He describes Therese’s work as timeless and contemporary, a part of “an imagined world that has come into reality.” Wareco’s six-piece collection is not merely made out of rattan but is also intentionally forged with other materials like metal and glass, as a sort of reinforcement.
Founded in 2013, Therese’s brand Wareco has evolved from what it initially came to be known for: first, for utilitarian tote bags with which she wanted to end the grueling search for stuff inside, and during the pandemic, for reclaimed Japanese wooden box drawers sourced from surplus shops.
Guava Sketches, a purveyor of local and international novelty items, fashion, furniture, and design, was one of the first stores to stock Wareco in 2018. Its general manager Joan Cantemprate remembers following Therese since her time as E. Murio's production manager. “I love her works and her passion for designing objects,” Joan told Nolisoli.ph in an interview. “She is involved in every aspect from ideas to the process to actual production.”
“It’s as if I am given permission to shape or if the bend is not possible then their limitations are set”
This is partly because Wareco is a one-woman team, though that doesn’t mean Regalado’s a lone island of ideas. She admits despite a sense of stolid self-reliance, “It’s hard to work on stuff when you’re only talking to yourself.”
Over the course of the last two years, she’s worked with clients on custom furniture orders and collaborated with friends such as designer Carl Jan Cruz to create one-offs. Last year, the two reimagined the iconic Ishinomaki stool from Japanese furniture brand Ishinomaki Lab to celebrate its 10th anniversary. Therese darkened the stool’s light finish and gave it red streaks to match the cushion made out of Cruz’s studio-developed rib gabao fabric.
“She’s always game, doing her thing without being imposing… and very open to things,” Cruz said of Regalado. When he reached out to her, he said it came out of knowing each other’s expertise, a natural evolution of their friendship. He describes Therese’s work as timeless and contemporary, a part of “an imagined world that has come into reality.”
In July, she unveiled a custom creation, a stainless steel seat with provisional slots on each side for bent bamboo strips. The hypermobile cartridge seat, as it came to be called, now warms up local streetwear brand Fortune WWD’s minimalist Makati outpost.
“When one works with rattan or uway, you use your entire body to bend until the point where it breaks, really seeing what the limitations of that specific material are.”
The rattan used to make Wareco pieces are sourced from and assembled in Negros Island, an ode to Therese’s roots. Photo courtesy of Wareco
The rattan used to make Wareco pieces are sourced from and assembled in Negros Island, an ode to Therese’s roots. Photo courtesy of Wareco
Therese’s love of furniture making also stems from her love of working with craftsmen, with whom she’d worked intensively during her time as a production manager. “The level of experience and mastery they have with their hands is so interesting to witness and encourage,” she said.
For the last few months, she’s worked with craftsmen anew, this time in Dumaguete and Bacolod—which is five to six hours apart by land—to work on a new collection for Wareco coming out this month. It’s an ode to Therese’s hometown in Negros, where its key materials are abundant and thus utilized in what was once a booming industry: rattan. Unlike the pliant bamboo that can stand its own ground, rattan, a climbing palm species, depends on sturdier trees, slithering its way past the forest canopy for the warmth of sunlight. Still, rattan is hardy and also adaptable. It is, after all, a collection of fibers condensed into a long and winding stem that can grow up to hundreds of meters.
The Philippines is a known exporter of rattan as the vine grows in abundance in multiple parts of the country, so much so that one of its monikers is Manila cane. There are over 64 known rattan species that grow locally. Out of these, only three are favored by furniture makers for their abundance in nature as well as their girthy diameter that can reach two centimeters or more.
“I always want to start with something impossible.”
“I always want to start with something impossible.”
“When one works with rattan or uway (its local name), you use your entire body to bend until the point where it breaks, really seeing what the limitations of that specific material are,” Therese said. But even the pliable rattan has its limits. Most furniture made out of this indigenous material that we see now—including a 40-year-old screw-less(!) set of dining chairs at the Regalado house—are products of this time-tested tinkering with the bounds of rattan’s flexibility. With Wareco, Therese tries to surpass both the limits of the plant and of creativity.
“I always want to start with something impossible,” she said, often beginning with a sketch that puzzles and challenges craftsmen used to traditional ways of working within rattan’s range. “Because there will always be options for the workaround where we have interesting solutions we can play around with.” Pictured here is the armchair made with rattan, stainless steel back, and metal hardware. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The six-piece collection available for pre-order on Wareco’s website until October consists of an armchair, a side chair, a stool, a three-tiered shelf, three tables of varying heights and widths, and a lamp. They are not merely made out of rattan but are also intentionally forged with other materials. Therese said of the armchair inspired by director’s chairs with a fluid-looking stainless steel backrest: “I wanted the steel to act like fabric, slightly bent on the back for comfort and cut on the sides as if it’s pulled by screws.”
Clockwise from left: Stool, cabinet, lampara, armchair, wav table, and side chair. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
Clockwise from left: Stool, cabinet, lampara, armchair, wav table, and side chair. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The same mirrored-finish metal also found its way as legs on the side chair and as a stand for the lamp where two complementary curved rattan shades hang. The stool, meanwhile, is designed so that the rattan poles look like tubes of steel lined up and stacked to form a seat. They are bound together by metal screws and meant to be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport.
In this manner, metal acts as a reinforcement to rattan that’s been pushed beyond its limits. “When I had fabricated the stainless steel with this collection I was thinking of connecting materials at their sturdiest points to supplement the whole. How and where to brace with the least amount of intrusion,” Therese explained. The Wareco wav table has legs made with curved rattan made to look like a continuous loop reinforced with stainless steel spokes. They support a security glass top.
The metal back rest on the armchair is fabricated to look almost like liquid silver to complement the curves of the rattan body. Photos by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The Wareco wav table has legs made with curved rattan made to look like a continuous loop reinforced with stainless steel spokes. They support a security glass top.
The metal back rest on the armchair is fabricated to look almost like liquid silver to complement the curves of the rattan body. Photos by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The tables and the shelf, other than having masterfully curved rattan legs and frames, have glass tops, but not just any ordinary glass. For these, Therese used shatter-resistant security glass reinforced with wire for its translucence and texture.
One of rattan furniture’s distinguishing features is its natural finish, a product of drying that renders the cane a color akin to local candies balikutsa and tira-tira’s pale warmth. Few craftsmen are brave enough to show the lengths through which rattan has been subjected to achieve Fibonacciesque curves—for one, heat that enables its fibers to be malleable enough but also results in distinctive burn marks. Still, fewer are those like Therese who amplifies these cheetah-like spots and paints the canes back to their wild green hue resembling her first love: bamboo.
The rattan and bamboo stool can be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The rattan and bamboo stool can be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The rattan and bamboo stool can be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The rattan and bamboo stool can be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
The rattan and bamboo stool can be taken apart into five flat pieces for easy transport. Photo by Colin Dancel for Wareco
As we were wrapping the shoot at her house, she asks us if she should call the verdant finish “tupig” after the charcoal-grilled, banana leaf-wrapped rice cake embedded with young coconut strips from northwestern Luzon. Her other option was “tosta” or toasted. She’s still pondering it through, brushing off a remark from a friend who said maybe she was hungry when she thought of painting the rattan a cool green last minute. Maybe she’ll ask her trusty tukô for advice.
One thing Therese is sure of is Wareco’s natural evolution. The name was originally intended to connote different kinds of wares: software, hardware, homeware, you name it. (She’s also comfortable pronouncing it as “wa-rê-co,” like a Japanese word). So far, she’s crossed out two—three if you count fabric as software—but she’s not stopping there. “I still plan to continue this by making objects with craftsmen in varying sectors of expertise.” ●
Part I of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Makers SpecialAll pieces are available for pre-order at wareco.infoCover photography by Rob Frogoso
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Produced by Christian San Jose
PROFILE
Minsan’s Dano Tingcungco reveals the surprising intimacy in bags
The journalist-designer makes use of memories, both personal and collective, to form the leather accouterments he creates. The result: bags telling of the characters of both maker and bearer
Words by PAULINE MIRANDA Photos by ROB FROGOSO
“If it’s something very personal to you, it’s something that will be with you all day every day, even when you sleep. You won’t think it’s a chore because it’s a part of you,” Dano Tingcungco, who most may probably recognize as a senior reporter on one of the country’s major networks, says about his other rekindled craft: shoemaking.
The journalist was born into a family of shoemakers, experts in the local leather craft, which naturally influenced Dano from a very young age. Over the years, he has found himself drawn back to it and this March, launched his own brand, Minsan.
Dano Tingcungco often describes himself as a “reporter sa umaga, sapatero sa gabi.” Born and raised in a family of shoemakers, leather and all its forms has always been a part of his life.
By day, he weaves together words and facts to report on the country’s most recent events. He sews and puts together various skins to create bespoke footwear and one-off bags at night—and with any other free time he has, at that.
Minsan, Dano says, came as part of his process of getting to know and mastering himself as a person and as a designer. This understanding of his identity as an artist and of his vision about what he wanted his craft to be led to him establishing his own brand, forging his own path in the shoemaking and leatherworking business.
“There’s a specificity that I would want to do. It comes with the territory of knowing yourself and knowing everything that you want,” he says. “There are no rules but your own. I have a very specific vision… [of what] I want the project to be when I’m at the helm of it. It’s all informed by experience, and I feel like it needed to be its own entity for it to fully have the freedom to move.”
So although Minsan is Dano’s very own venture, it remains anchored on his and his family’s experiences and memories.
“Minsan is really an homage and a reference and a love letter to moments,” Dano says. “Moments that are both temporary and permanent. A moment is not designed to last forever, but a moment can change you permanently.”
This idea is distilled into the very material of Minsan’s objects. Akin to moments and memories that are ours and ours alone, each bag carries a combination of colors and leather skins that is often one of a kind, meaning no two items could be exactly the same.
The journalist was born into a family of shoemakers, experts in the local leather craft, which naturally influenced Dano from a very young age. Over the years, he has found himself drawn back to it and this March, launched his own brand, Minsan.
By day, he weaves together words and facts to report on the country’s most recent events. He sews and puts together various skins to create bespoke footwear and one-off bags at night—and with any other free time he has, at that.
Minsan, Dano says, came as part of his process of getting to know and mastering himself as a person and as a designer. This understanding of his identity as an artist and of his vision about what he wanted his craft to be led to him establishing his own brand, forging his own path in the shoemaking and leatherworking business.
Dano Tingcungco often describes himself as a “reporter sa umaga, sapatero sa gabi.” Born and raised in a family of shoemakers, leather and all its forms has always been a part of his life.
“There’s a specificity that I would want to do. It comes with the territory of knowing yourself and knowing everything that you want,” he says. “There are no rules but your own. I have a very specific vision… [of what] I want the project to be when I’m at the helm of it. It’s all informed by experience, and I feel like it needed to be its own entity for it to fully have the freedom to move.”
So although Minsan is Dano’s very own venture, it remains anchored on his and his family’s experiences and memories. “Minsan is really an homage and a reference and a love letter to moments”
“Minsan is really an homage and a reference and a love letter to moments,” Dano says. “Moments that are both temporary and permanent. A moment is not designed to last forever, but a moment can change you permanently.”
This idea is distilled into the very material of Minsan’s objects. Akin to moments and memories that are ours and ours alone, each bag carries a combination of colors and leather skins that is often one of a kind, meaning no two items could be exactly the same.
“The perfect bag does not exist”
In a 2006 New York Times article entitled “Sometimes a Bag Is Not Just a Bag,” writer Daphne Merkin elaborates on how bags, perceived by some as a mere accessory yet by others as a daily necessity, is a collection of the various fragments of oneself, of “the crucial Filofaxed information as well as the frivolous, lipsticky stuff.”
A bag is, as many before me have said, an extension of oneself. It is our most intimate companion, one we hold the closest to ourselves, one privy to all the physical pieces of our day-to-day. It is the sole witness to our moments, from that commute, to that party, that meeting, to that date. The choice of color and form of the bag is also an expression of one’s character or mood, even if only for the moment or occasion.
So perhaps, creating bags that would fulfill this purpose for others could come across as daunting, and would require some higher level of perception and understanding not just of the objective craft of bag-making, but of the care and intimacy bags must possess, too.
The Piga is the latest in Minsan’s foray into bags, and is its most customizable shape to date as the wearer is given freedom how to tie and use its strap, closure, and drawstring.
The Piga is the latest in Minsan’s foray into bags, and is its most customizable shape to date as the wearer is given freedom how to tie and use its strap, closure, and drawstring.
Minsan’s selection of bags—three shapes as of this writing, in the form of the Pisil, Piga, and Pipi—is born both as a coming together of Dano’s influences and experiences, and a culmination of his years-long search for what the perfect bag is. “It took a while. It took years. I’ve attempted it many times before, to build what I perceive as the perfect bag,” he recalls. “Until I realized, the perfect bag does not exist—at least not in the way I envisioned it in my imagination. Anything is perfect for what it is designed to do.
“When I let go of that very rigid idea in my head and realized that yes, a bag does not have to be everything, but it can be damn f*cking good [at] what it is made for, that’s when I felt like I’ve hit a breakthrough somewhere. When I let go of that idea, that’s when it started getting fun.”
The fun is clearly evident in the bag’s shapes and in the various skins Dano personally curated. Take the Piga, the latest shape in Minsan’s selection. The sack-like pouch bears multiple points of personalization, allowing the wearer to customize its form to what they deem suitable for their use.
“There’s a private joy in it that only you have the privilege of experiencing”
Meanwhile, the Pisil, a refined, round bag suitable for more formal occasions, makes the fun more intimate. As its outer bears more neutral shades like kape or karbon (brown, black), opening it reveals linings with brighter shades like the pink rosas or the ripe golden-yellow kasoy. This alludes to and adds to the very private joy one gets from one’s bag, Dano says.
Likewise some linings are even in skins like suede, providing a softer handfeel when one reaches into the bag. “There’s a private joy in it that only you have the privilege of experiencing. That is an experience that cannot be replicated by anything. It’s something that is very experiential. And when you feel it, the joy that it gives you, the private joy, it’s something valuable.”
Anatomy of Minsan bags
While Minsan has grown into a team of five since its launch in March 2021, Dano still personally curates the skins used for the shoes and bags the brand makes. He handpicks each one, he says, basing most of the choices on feelings, both emotional and physical. The colors he picks to be part of the collection are often ones that evoke memories.
The combination of the dark teal lumot with the electric green kamias, for example, is heavily influenced by Dano’s childhood. He recalls: “There was one time my mother went home with a bunch of plastic straws—’yung ginagamit sa softdrinks sa tindahan—in this exact color. I was six years old. The colors never left me, so when I was sourcing and found this leather, I couldn’t let it go.” The kamias, another favorite color of his, harkens back to the first bag he bought for himself. “I realized, the perfect bag does not exist—at least not in the way I envisioned it in my imagination. Anything is perfect for what it is designed to do.”
“I realized, the perfect bag does not exist—at least not in the way I envisioned it in my imagination. Anything is perfect for what it is designed to do.”
Other colors are a play on collective memory. The light, toasted brown of the apa colorway is an ode to the airy, crunchy cones that come with tubs of ice cream. Meanwhile the deep blue dyobus, reminiscent of the dye used to make old school uniforms look new, is a timely back-to-school period release. Then there’s the diliman, a maroon obviously in reference to the state university. Putting together the color combinations are instinctive for Dano. “It’s more honest that way. If it doesn’t feel right with you, how can you expect others to feel right about it?” he says.
Translucence is another important factor for Minsan’s bags. It refers to some unevenness in the leather’s colors, which to Dano is more valuable. “You think it’s a flaw at first, but if you look at the leather more closely, you would realize it’s aniline dyed. It’s vegetable tanned. So the dye seeps, soaks all the way through the leather. And the tendency of that is it showcases the history of the hide, the skin, the marks of the animal that lived in it… That in itself gives you a lot of character.”
Each color of skin used is named after things that call back memories of old. Take for example the true blue dyobus, named after the Filipinized term for fabric dyes, which was in turn named after the popular Joe Bush dyeing and cleaning service in the days of Old Manila. Photo courtesy of Minsan
In March this year, Dano launched Minsan with its first collection of open-heeled shoes called Pavilion, inspired by the sapatilyas popular from the ‘30s to the ‘60s. Photo by Mac Jayson Villaluna
The true blue dyobus, named after the Filipinized term for fabric dyes, which was in turned named after the popular Joe Bush dyeing and cleaning service in the days of Old Manila. Photo courtesy of Minsan
In March this year, Dano launched Minsan with its first collection of open-heeled shoes called Pavilion, inspired by the sapatilyas popular from the ‘30s to the ‘60s. Photo by Mac Jayson Villaluna
And although he doesn’t define it, as he talks about Minsan—his personal journey, process, and his collaboration with fellow artisans in his team—it becomes apparent: There’s more to each bag than just its color, texture, and translucence. It’s just as much about the instinct the creators used in putting each piece together, the emotion one gets from using the piece, and the collaboration of one artisan to another, of bag to wearer.
The Pipi is Minsan’s take on the tote, with over a dozen color combinations. The bags are often mono-editions, with no two bags carrying the same combination of colors or leather. Photo courtesy of Minsan
The Pipi is Minsan’s take on the tote, with over a dozen color combinations. The bags are often mono-editions, with no two bags carrying the same combination of colors or leather. Photo courtesy of Minsan
In a sense, each bag is a vessel of memory and emotion, passed from one hand to the next. One lives and breathes with it until the time comes for it to be passed down once again, much like an heirloom. This is what Dano hopes his bags come to be. One that, like the many fleeting moments that have found itself seared into memory, will last forever. ●
Part II of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Makers SpecialMinsan bags and shoes are available at Guava Sketches at Greenbelt 5
Cover photography by Rob Frogoso
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Produced by Christian San Jose
Special thanks to Guava Sketches
“I’m just here to hook up,” Danton* told Czar Kristoff on Grindr, a dating app largely used by the LGBT+ community. “I don’t understand what a workshop is for,” Kristoff’s match added.
Also on Grindr, Zeus Bascon paused, looking for the words to tell his match what the project really was about. Unfortunately, before he could finish, his match blocked him.
Selling a project to the art world in Manila and abroad was one thing, but sharing a community project with a sales clerk with limited opportunities and education was another thing entirely. “Do you feel safe when you go out?” Kristoff asked instead.
Hours later, Danton was still opening up about being a heterosexual-passing man in a hypermasculine space.
Later, it’s Kristoff sharing at Danton’s prompting, and the former talks about frequenting a skate park, having to hide his flamboyance, and “manning up.”
Taking up space
For Kristoff and Bascon, both recipients of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ (CCP) annual 13 Artists Awards, coming to terms with their queerness was, and is, a gradual process.
The artists Kristoff and Basconduring a sunset session in San Pedro, Laguna in June. Photo by JL Javier
In a Zoom interview with Nolisoli.ph, the two Laguna-based artists share their mission and what drives them. Bascon also brings up the dilemmas of self-expression in a hypermasculine space. Recently, he attended a hip-hop event in a skate park, but he didn’t hide who he was. He let them know “na may bakla dito.”
Bascon cites a supportive family and tolerating neighbors as the water which lets him flower.
Unfortunately, as Danton’s story shows, many queer Filipinos from less privileged backgrounds are not given the space or the institutional safety to allow this process to bloom. As such, many LGBTQIA+ folks sometimes hold mindsets that hinder their best interests, such as internalized homophobia or a fear-driven dismissal of human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) testing.
This urgency animates Bascon as he shares, “Since we’re queer people here in Laguna, HIV testing is very important. We want to create a public space where HIV testing is seen as normal.”
First discovered in the 1980s, HIV is a largely sexually transmitted virus that weakens the immune system. Scientists believe it likely originated from colonial prostitution in Africa and later unhygienic syringe use from vaccination campaigns in the region.
You take this specific role in a community as an artist to motivate or initiate movements within the community.
Arist Zeus Bascon
Presently, dated misconceptions persist that HIV is a disease exclusively created by and spread among LGBTQIA+ people. The Human Rights Campaign Foundation reports that HIV is notably present among the LGBTQIA+ community not because of same-sex practices, which many ideologues insist, but because of social stigma forcing many LGBTQIA+ people into unsafe sex work given the lack of employment opportunities.
In the Philippines, the Department of Health warned of the rising positivity rate of HIV results in the period between 2008 and 2017, from one positive case per day to 30 new diagnoses per day. Meanwhile, only 67 percent of people living with HIV in 2016 knew their status. In the same report, the World Health Organization added that a misdiagnosis rate of 10 percent occurs with dated test kits as one possible factor.
A safe sunset
Enter “Sunset Garden,” a project which may just be Kristoff and Bascon’s biggest undertaking yet. Is it a publication? A microsite? An ethnography? Group therapy? A community intervention?
The duo partnered not just with art institutions but also with medical and civil institutions, and the project heavily credits its rollout to Erroll Austria, a worker from a private HIV foundation attached to the Ospital ng Biñan HIV and AIDS Treatment Hub.
”Grindr Sunsets” (2019-2022), a project focusing on the act camouflaging in homogenized queer space through sunset images.Photo courtesy of Czar Kristoff
“Sunset Garden” is a continuing collaboration between the two artists that brings LGBTQIA+ individuals together by holding space for conversations and self-expression. It is a combination of individual projects they initiated in previous years, the first iterations of which were launched in early 2022. More iterations are also planned in the future based on feedback from the past and current sub-projects.
Kristoff observed something peculiar about Filipino Grindr versus when he used the app overseas: Some Filipinos used photos of sunsets as their profile pictures instead of face or body photos. He talked to these people and presented his observations in a multimedia artwork titled “Grindr Sunsets.”
Bascon worked on an artist residency in La Union under Emerging Islands, which culminated in a series of paintings and postcards of sunsets titled “Cultivating a Garden.” Photo courtesy of Zeus Bascon
A version of this project was presented in Kwago Book Bar during Pride 2019. Building from feedback there, Kristoff presented a different version during the March 2022 run of the CCP’s 13 Artists Awards.
Bascon, meanwhile, was working on an artist residency in seaside La Union under Emerging Islands. It was also a time in his life involving much inner work. The residency culminated in a series of paintings and postcards of sunsets titled “Cultivating a Garden.”
“Sunset Garden” presently revolves around “congregations” of queer people and allies literally viewing sunsets at a reclaimed patch of land along Laguna de Bay, which Kristoff discovered during a bike ride. With Austria’s help, they organized a sharing session at the said spot, documented it, and presented snippets of it all while respecting participant privacy.
The duo admits that the first run saw limited success and that they continue to face hurdles. During the said sharing session, only one couple arrived, and they were hesitant at first. But Austria was vocal in his support of the project, which won the couple over. They then began to open up candidly about their experiences as queer folk, including their choice to get tested for HIV.
Upon recalling that, Bascon lights up: “As all this was happening, this is when I realized: This should happen again with more participants.” Psychosocial support and even caretaker support are crucial in living with HIV, similar to the holistic treatment of other chronic illnesses. “Sunset Garden,” if allowed to continue, may just be that, but also with a component of creative expression.
The next session saw the launch of a “Sunset Garden” publication by their sunset spot, containing field notes and snippets of testimonies from the “Grindr sunset profiles” as well as from their first congregation, which was filmed. Amidst local DJ budots remixes, and with their voices altered to protect their privacies, only their silhouettes shown, the participants talk about what the sunset means to them, by the sunset on Laguna de Bay. “How we participate in Grindr affects our everyday life outside of it,” one participant shares. The event was largely attended by writers and artists.
Bascon introducing the “Sunset Garden” zine to a crowd of writers, artists, and photographers in San Pedro, Laguna in June. Photo by Czar Kristoff
The duo tried distributing the publication at HIV clinics, and Bascon shares that the patients were kind enough to admit to the artists that they didn’t understand the publication’s content. “Many don’t know what the word ‘queer’ means,” Kristoff says of the people he interviewed on Grindr.
Despite this, the artists were further galvanized into improving the work. Amid differences in language and education, as well as some initial hesitance, the subjects were always, always willing to share, to open up, to let someone hold space for them.
Kristoff and Bascon have each exhibited around the Philippines and abroad. And yet they feel that going home to Laguna and focusing on it is the most challenging and fulfilling project they’ve taken on so far. More iterations are planned, as long as there is a need for them, and the publication is one way supporters can help fund the project.
The Excel site and film (which was shown at the CCP) on which the publication is based is glittery and kitsch and reminiscent of a Multiply page from the early 2000s.
“That’s because I’m a Multiply gal,” quips Kristoff, before expounding that they used this specific visual language as it resonates more with home, with how people here express themselves. He adds, “It’s hard to unlearn things if you won’t go back to your past. Healing is a time-based process. You have to go back in time in order to heal.”
Citizens then artists
The project thus also sheds light on the gap between the language of the art world and the language of the general public.
“Parati nating pinagsisilbihan ang mga collectors tsaka galleries (We always serve art collectors and commercial galleries),” Kristoff observes. Bascon meanwhile rounds it out by admitting that while painting in the gallery circuit pays the bills, he remains aware of “the concerns of the public beyond the art world” and because of this, he and Kristoff are straightforward with galleries in “expressing what we need to be able to work with them.”
“To Watch The Sunset Once Again,” a two-channel video consisting of a slideshow of sunset images gathered from Kristoff’s original series ”Grindr Sunsets” (2019-2022), premiered last March 10 at the Cultural Center of the Philippines during the opening of Thirteen Artist Awards group exhibition.Photo by Dennese Victoria/Cultural Center of the Philippines
Feedback from the “Sunset Garden” congregations informed Bascon on how to be understood by the public instead of just the art-viewing community. “That’s when I realized projects like these aren’t meant to target art institutions and commercial galleries to tackle community issues but to target the local government and individuals with resources,” he expounds.
While sunset viewing with Austria and the couple, Bascon noted that bystanders in the vicinity were within earshot of the group and could pick up on the stories being shared and how they were being expressed.
Something as small as that is a radical act, Bascon further believes, as being a citizen is essentially participating in public life. Being queer in public spaces where heteronormativity is equated with propriety, sometimes in spaces as mundane as one’s commute, is one such example which the painter cites from his experience. “Ito nga ang ibig-sabihin ng occupying spaces. Kahit nag-uusap lang tayo, and other people are present. (This is what it means to ‘occupy space’: Something as seemingly small as conversing while others are present).”
Community mediums
In pre-colonial Philippines, the babaylan or shaman was roughly the equivalent of a priest but also a living library. The babaylan knew not just rituals to ensure a good harvest or which plants healed or poisoned but also the fables and legends representing community values. People visited the babaylan to seek advice, too.
The babaylan worked to embody and anchor the gods, the ideals, in their communities.
Storyteller, community guide, spiritual medium, medicine-person—these were the roles undertaken.
Babaylan were often women or men who lived as women. They held as much power as the military and political leader of a barangay, the datu, who was often a man but could be a woman. When the Spaniards arrived, babaylan were demonized in order to pave a new hierarchy. The datu meanwhile, became the overseers of Spanish authority.
Today there are still subconscious imprints of our communal past. It could be said that a manifestation of this is in the participants allowing themselves to be vulnerable with a group of strangers during the sunset viewings. It’s precisely this that grounds the entire project: that primal need to commune in spaces created by those who’ve done thorough soul-searching.
Sunset Garden, the artists describe, is a temporary congregation of long time friends and strangers over a reclaimed land at Laguna de Bay, that aims to reevaluate what it means to be in the periphery, to own one’s body, to confront shame and desire, to transfigure, to trust, to forgive, to hope, to love, while watching the sunset. Photo by Czar Kristoff
But Kristoff and Bascon aren’t saviors, they are mediums helping others to embark on their own journeys, “the hero’s journey,” as Bascon puts it, alluding to the meaning of sun signs in astrology. It’s not for the galleries, it’s for the subjects, it’s for the community.
He ponders further, realizing that “there’s even the artist-as-performance. You take this specific role in a community as an artist to motivate or initiate movements within the community.”
There’s a spirit that the Sunset Garden project is trying to anchor, and it’s currently taking many physical forms with no definite shape yet. But it’s there. Perhaps Bascon, Kristoff, Austria, and their collaborators, in their own ways, answer the call of the Divine Feminine, a call which closeted clerks or hip-hop lads in skate parks are trying to heed, in their own way, in their own time.
When the sun sets, it’s time for the stars to shine.
*Name has been changed
You can support the project by purchasing the Sunset Garden publication on Instagram and Facebook. Follow Czar Kristoff and Zeus Bascon to keep posted on future sunset sessions.
One Sunday in Escolta’s creative space Hub: Make Lab, we met full-time professional photographer Jovel Lorenzo of Box Camera Ph. He’s been in the photography business for 20 years now, initially as a photographer for magazines using a 35mm film single-lens reflex (SLR) Nikon FM2 and a medium format cam.
“I eventually switched to digital,” he told Nolisoli.ph over email, “but I’ve always tried to go back to analog photography in my professional career.”
And go back he did. That weekend, he brought something different. Something that dates back decades.
Instead of snapping photos with a sleek compact camera, he asks his subjects to pose before a wooden contraption propped up by a tripod. The device was a street box camera he fashioned from parts scoured from the internet and built himself over the course of the quarantine in 2020.
Lorenzo with another street box camerathat he also created.
A street box camera, minutera camera, lambe-lambe, or an Afghan box was first used by traveling photographers in Latin America who would mount makeshift studios in locations without one. Soon, it was popularized in tourist spots in Europe because it was able to develop black-and-white pictures within minutes as it is both a camera and a darkroom.
More than just the novelty of analog photography, Lorenzo’s photos capture something else: a rawness amplified by the black-and-white format, something even a smartphone with advanced lenses can’t recreate. His photographs, 5”x7” print, seem like they were taken a century ago, projecting a mysterious aura that’s out of these contemporary times.
A photograph from his “Island Quarantine” series
“The look of the photograph is very different,” he said. “It has more texture, more depth, so you feel like you’re looking at something soulful.”
The process in itself is just as fascinating. While waiting for the final photo to develop, he shows you a glimpse of what it would look like by viewing the negative through a phone camera whose display colors have been inverted.
There was a point in my life when I got bored doing photography using my digital camera, it became just that—a job.
Initially, Lorenzo and his street box camera used to only accommodate private sittings at his wife’s shop in Pasig and then at Photokitchen Studio in Kamuning, Quezon City. A two-hour session for one person or a couple starts at P4,500, inclusive of the black-and-white print.
It wasn’t until last month that his craft was made more accessible to the greater public through a series of pop-ups. The first one was at a photographers’ film meetup in Quezon City, then at a Father’s Day event at a mall in Makati, and more recently at HUB: Make Lab’s Pista ng Pamana.
In this interview, we talk to Lorenzo about the novelty of analog, his passion for photography, and how to make subjects comfortable in front of the camera.
When did you start using a street box camera?
I started playing with the idea of creating a street box camera in 2020 during the pandemic after watching several YouTube videos about it. I was able to build one and it took more than a month (from design to build). By November 2020, I had a fully functioning camera.
How does a street box camera work?
A street box camera operates as both a camera and a darkroom in one. What’s unique about it is that it doesn’t use film and instead, uses chemical-based photo paper to produce both negatives and positives.
Ideally, a street box camera develops pictures on the spot and I do that during special private sessions. I basically take another photo of the produced negative via a special arm which I also created.
But for sitter sessions, where I take several portraits, I would develop the photographs via my dark room. This helps me save on photo paper since I have fewer mistakes and I end up with pictures with outcomes I can control better.
How does a portrait session usually go?
[At popups] a sitter session takes about 15 minutes (P1,500). Usually, I ask if they have a pose in mind and we can start from that. I also ask what their interests are and we sometimes get an idea from there. Subjects hold their pose for several seconds as I prepare the camera. They hold about 1-2 seconds for me but on instances where light is dim, they stay still longer. The longest was 18 seconds but that was a rare case.
Glorious Dias’ Jodinand Aguillon photographed in Escolta. “I didn’t bring my lights that time, just the box and it was a bit dim inside the Hub so had to adjust his pose to make sure he was comfortable for 18 seconds. I usually ask them talaga not to move,” Lorenzo remembered of the shoot.
Can you recall your most memorable subject/shoot?
All my shoots are memorable because the process of doing it is really complex. But if I really have to choose it would be those I took as part of my art sessions. The first [was] a 14-day portrait I started during the early months of the box camera.
The series was called the “Island Quarantine Series” where I tried to capture island life and personalities for each day of my two-week mandatory quarantine when I visited my island hometown of Tingloy in Batangas.
From Lorenzo’s “Island Quarantine” series
I also have three images that captured typical provincial life using another box camera I created. This one produced 11”x11” images and I had to create a separate box as a dark room. I had to lug both anywhere I [went] but it was worth it when I got to produce the three images.
Why do you think people are drawn to analog stuff lately?
The challenge and novelty of doing analog are beautiful and something that people appreciate. The excitement of not knowing what’s going to come out, of doing your best because you only have a few frames to work on is enticing. During this pandemic, in particular, people had a lot of time on their hands, so they had the chance to go back to something that took time to produce.
Lorenzo’s street box camera fashioned from parts scoured from the internet and built himself over the course of the quarantine in 2020.
What’s the best part of what you do?
The best part for me is going back to what I really love doing. There was a point in my life when I got bored doing photography using my digital camera, it became just that—a job. When I got to do photography with the box, I was so happy that I got to apply what I knew before. Suddenly it was exciting again. It [means] that I won’t stop learning and it’s such a beautiful and unique medium that I am eager to share with younger photographers.
PROFILE
Pio Abad’s latest exhibit reveals the ugliness behind the ‘beauty’ of martial law
The London-based Filipino artist returns to talk about navigating the cognitive dissonance of our fraught understanding of history
Words by PAOLO VERGARA Photos by JP TALAPIAN
The truth, as the increasingly cliché adage goes, will set you free. But what happens when a nation denies its historical truths? Or better yet, what if the educational system, cultural zeitgeist, and economic realities largely prevent an uncomfortable but necessary confrontation with aspects of the past we’d rather avoid? Untitled (February 25, 1986), Giclee print on Hahnemuhle Baryta paper, 2022. A reproduction of a photo taken by the artist’s mother on the day of the EDSA Revolution, showing the “Ferdinand as Makalas” painting in Malacañang. Photo by Andy Keate courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
That is when we take fiction as fact, perception as reality, as suggested by multimedia artist, art professor, and researcher Pio Abad’s latest exhibit at the Ateneo Art Gallery: “Fear of Freedom Makes Us See Ghosts,” which opened on April 19.
Abad drew the show’s title from a passage in Brazilian educator and philosopher Paulo Freire’s “Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” now considered a foundational text in the social sciences, especially by social workers and community organizers in postcolonial contexts. That is when we take fiction as fact, perception as reality, as suggested by multimedia artist, art professor, and researcher Pio Abad’s latest exhibit at the Ateneo Art Gallery: “Fear of Freedom Makes Us See Ghosts,” which opened on April 19.
Abad drew the show’s title from a passage in Brazilian educator and philosopher Paulo Freire’s “Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” now considered a foundational text in the social sciences, especially by social workers and community organizers in postcolonial contexts. A decade-long reimagining
Pio, the son of student activists-turned-public servants, initially considered a career in advertising, but a visit to his aunt Pacita Abad in Singapore in the 2000s shifted his interest to a career in the arts.
The year was 2012 and optimism was in the air.
The nostalgia and promises of the post-martial law years influenced Filipinos to enable the presidency of Noynoy Aquino, the son of Ninoy Aquino, dictator Ferdinand Marcos’s most prominent opponent.
Meanwhile, in the United States, Barack Obama’s second term was also beginning, and it was seen as an era of cosmopolitanism and progressivism as the nation continued to be led by its first African-American president.
And around the world, the promise of social media democratizing information and connecting people saw an era of tech enthusiasm.
By then, Abad’s art career was already taking off, having graduated from the Glasgow School of Art just a few years back and just having finished his Masters in Fine Arts at the Royal Academy Schools in London.
Already tackling Philippine history in his work, Abad began working on “Fear of Freedom,” embarking on what would turn out to be a 10-year endeavor: a re-imagining of objects and motifs from the two-decades-long martial law era, from the conjugal dictatorship’s vision of themselves as the mythical Malakas at Maganda to their Old Master art and jewelry collection. He juxtaposed these with the martyrs of the resistance, the social costs of the couple’s caprices, and the missed opportunities to uplift Filipino lives. Pio, the son of student activists-turned-public servants, initially considered a career in advertising, but a visit to his aunt Pacita Abad in Singapore in the 2000s shifted his interest to a career in the arts.
The year was 2012 and optimism was in the air.
The nostalgia and promises of the post-martial law years influenced Filipinos to enable the presidency of Noynoy Aquino, the son of Ninoy Aquino, dictator Ferdinand Marcos’s most prominent opponent.
Meanwhile, in the United States, Barack Obama’s second term was also beginning, and it was seen as an era of cosmopolitanism and progressivism as the nation continued to be led by its first African-American president.
And around the world, the promise of social media democratizing information and connecting people saw an era of tech enthusiasm.
By then, Abad’s art career was already taking off, having graduated from the Glasgow School of Art just a few years back and just having finished his Masters in Fine Arts at the Royal Academy Schools in London.
Already tackling Philippine history in his work, Abad began working on “Fear of Freedom,” embarking on what would turn out to be a 10-year endeavor: a re-imagining of objects and motifs from the two-decades-long martial law era, from the conjugal dictatorship’s vision of themselves as the mythical Malakas at Maganda to their Old Master art and jewelry collection. He juxtaposed these with the martyrs of the resistance, the social costs of the couple’s caprices, and the missed opportunities to uplift Filipino lives.
“Most often the objects I look at, no one would want to put in museums because it disrupts official narratives.”
Abad trawled through the back offices of museums and galleries, deploying techniques like traditional painting, postcard printing, repurposing a decaying statue from a university museum, and later, with his wife the artist and jeweler Frances Wadsworth Jones, augmented reality and 3D printing.
Back then, people around the artist told Abad to perhaps work on other subjects and themes, as the assumption was that the Marcoses had largely—and rightfully—faded into irrelevance and obscurity.
Who knew that in ten years, “the tables would be flipped,” as the artist puts it? Torchbearing
One of the 24 reconstructions of pieces from the Marcoses’ Hawaii Collection by Pio Abad and Frances Wadsworth Jones. Photo by Matthew Booth courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
One of the 24 reconstructions of pieces from the Marcoses’ Hawaii Collection by Pio Abad and Frances Wadsworth Jones. Photo by Matthew Booth courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
Upon entering the exhibit in Ateneo, the work closest to the door is a photo of Abad’s mother immediately after the EDSA Revolution, when Filipinos stormed Malacañang Palace. It’s also notable how the university was also the site where his parents were given refuge by the Jesuits after first being detained by the authorities for their protests.
Despite growing up with activist-turned-public servant parents and illuminated by the glow of a well-known Filipina artist, his aunt the late Pacita Abad, Abad almost considered dropping the arts.
Vivid memories of childhood involve attending the show openings of his aunt, punctuated by intense dinner table discussions helmed by parents Florencio and Henedina, who later served in post-EDSA administrations.
The quieter moments still revolved around art, as the young Pio attended his next-door neighbor’s painting workshops while joining larger weekend art classes around Quezon City.
The road forked as he entered college in the year 2000. Initially considering a career in advertising through a business course, the gentle nudging and lived example of Pacita convinced him to move to the UK to finish an art course there, having shifted to a fine arts course at the University of the Philippines (UP) Diliman from said management course in the Ateneo de Manila University. “For Silme”, acrylic on canvas, 2022. It is one of the first works in a series featuring appropriated book covers of Marcos manifestos, transformed into paintings as memorials for political leaders, community organizers, and activists.
“For Dina I”, acrylic on canvas, 2022. One of the most recently finished two paintings dedicated to the memory of the artist’s mother. Photos by Andy Keate courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
“For Silme”, acrylic on canvas, 2022. It is one of the first works in a series featuring appropriated book covers of Marcos manifestos, transformed into paintings as memorials for political leaders, community organizers, and activists.
“For Dina I”, acrylic on canvas, 2022. One of the most recently finished two paintings dedicated to the memory of the artist’s mother. Photos by Andy Keate courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
Parts of “Fear of Freedom” were either drawn from or exhibited at other Philippine university museums, namely the UP Diliman’s Jose B. Vargas Museum and the De La Salle College of St. Benilde’s Museum of Contemporary Art and Design.
In the final room, in what is arranged like a memorial wall, stand abstract paintings based on propaganda textbooks distributed during martial law. The setup is deliberate, as the paintings are from a growing collection of tributes to martial law resistance movement martyrs. More will be produced soon.
The last two paintings on display, simply titled “For Dina I” and “For Dina II,” are a tribute to Abad’s mother who passed away in 2017.
Fear of freedom
40 pieces of Regency-era silverware sequestered from the Marcoses reimagined by the artist in photographs. Abad often describes his work as a way to visualize the scale of imagined grandeur plundered during the dictatorship.
Abad cites literary figures, namely Joan Didion and Gabriel García Márquez as inspirations for works that on the surface appear to be biographical but are actually rooted in history and collective meaning-making.
It’s these threads that have since informed Abad’s body of work, continuing through his latest exhibit. Side-by-side with the Ateneo Art Gallery, at Silverlens Gallery in Makati, Abad along with artist Stephanie Syjuco are holding another show also tackling the legacy of the dictatorship and the power of protest.
Despite the heavy subject matter of his work, laughter and banter come easily to the artist.
A self-confessed archive geek, Abad always enjoyed the rigor of the creative research process. He recalls being granted access to the archives of the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum near Los Angeles. There, he discovered gifts that Ferdinand and Imelda gave Ronald and Nancy in 1982.
Abad begins to light up: “I find myself in these strange backrooms where history really comes alive. You are within striking distance of the DNA of people who you can argue have either shaped or destroyed culture. Or a bit of both. That’s what drives my work.”
In fact, Abad recalls that his first exposure to museums was through the Presidential Museum at Malacañang Palace, finding himself amongst objects which the Marcoses tried to hide during their regime.
“It’s how you transform these ‘remnants of fact’ into something people enjoy looking at and eventually, into something to learn from. But seduction always has to come first.”
“It’s how you transform these ‘remnants of fact’ into something people enjoy looking at and eventually, into something to learn from. But seduction always has to come first.”
“It’s how you transform these ‘remnants of fact’ into something people enjoy looking at and eventually, into something to learn from. But seduction always has to come first.”
More important than what is displayed is what is hidden, unspoken, hushed. Abad continues, “Most often the objects I look at, no one would want to put in museums because it disrupts official narratives. So to create these ‘faux museum displays’ of objects people want to hide, I think is fascinating, and that’s the way to counter this fear of freedom.”
Exorcising ghosts
With wife jewelry designer Frances Wadsworth Jones, in front of the 3D printed reconstructed pieces from the Hawaii Collection, part of “The Collection of Jane Ryan and William Saunders.”
The 24-piece collection was first exhibited at the 2019 Honolulu Biennale. The collection is also accessible here, as a “digital restitution project.”
With wife jewelry designer Frances Wadsworth Jones, in front of the 3D printed reconstructed pieces from the Hawaii Collection, part of “The Collection of Jane Ryan and William Saunders.”
The 24-piece collection was first exhibited at the 2019 Honolulu Biennale. The collection is also accessible here, as a “digital restitution project.”
But how do we communicate the truths about martial law in a time when the basic facts have become a battleground, and when average Filipinos increasingly distrust academic and news institutions? How do you banish the ghosts that have resulted from our fear?
“I don’t have an answer and I don’t trust people with all the answers,” Abad hazards, while still facing the concern.
He believes this is where beauty comes in, expounding: “It’s how you transform these ‘remnants of fact’ into something people enjoy looking at and eventually, into something to learn from. But seduction always has to come first.”
Admittedly, the objects are beautiful. Instead of the barbed-wire and bloodstained image of other works tackling martial law, we see well-lit reproductions of jewelry, postcards on pristine pedestals, and intricately drawn furniture and abstract paintings softly lit against a black background. “The Collection of Jane Ryan and William Saunders” postcard reproductions of Old Master paintings sequestered from Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. 90 sets of postcards are laid out in the middle of the exhibit, which visitors are free to (and encouraged to) take. On the back of each postcard are news articles relating to the sequestered wealth of the Marcoses. Photo courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
“The Collection of Jane Ryan and William Saunders” postcard reproductions of Old Master paintings sequestered from Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. 90 sets of postcards are laid out in the middle of the exhibit, which visitors are free to (and encouraged) to take. On the back of each postcard are news articles relating to the sequestered wealth of the Marcoses. Photo courtesy of Ateneo Art Gallery
Seeing “Fear of Freedom” is like walking through a showroom, but taking a close look at each work, you can’t escape the facts. This piece of jewelry could have fed families, that could have bought an airport, these abstracts are actually an obituary.
Abad mentions the climate in Glasgow during his student days. He recalls the intensive support for cultural work, which he strongly believes should be emulated in the Philippines: “As you support young people trying to expand cultural discourse, you end up with a more educated, more critical, more engaged society.”
“I see myself as one artist in a larger ecosystem of culture, trying to find ways to seduce people into looking at historical documents,” Abad says. A drop in an ocean Abad and other cultural workers may be, but a drop of clean water is an ocean away from a drop of poison. ● “Fear of Freedom Makes Us See Ghosts” at the Ateneo Art Gallery runs until July 30. Schedule a visit here. For contact details and more information, visit ateneoartgallery.com.Written by Paolo Vergara
Cover photography by JP Talapian
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Produced by Christian San Jose
PROFILE Relearning one’s sense of place with filmmaker Shireen Seno The filmmaker shares her path to self-discovery through learning about the in-betweens of being Filipino Words by DENISE ALCANTARA Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL Different birds are calling, some in a high pitch and some in a rounder tone. The wind is bellowing. Grass crackles at every step. And people murmur in the background. I’m peering through one of the lenses of Shireen Seno’s binoculars as she searches for different migratory birds and ducks in marshes and grasslands in and out of the Philippines. She finds birds flying in flocks or perching on branches solo. “A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” (Arcade 4walls edition) | 2020, 18 min, color, HD | December 15, 2020 to January 14, 2021 Asia Plaza Media Wall, Asia Culture Center, Gwangju, South Korea Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, went to university in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles with her father before finding home in Manila. Her work entitled “A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” is part of the work-in-progress feature film, “The Wild Duck,” an exploration of her father’s migration to the United States in the early 2000s. Her life journey is akin to the migratory birds she films. For most of the filmmaker’s life, she has gone searching for the meaning of home.
An international student all her school days, Seno struggled with belonging. Being neither here nor there, she started asking fundamental questions about identity, place, and purpose. On her return to the Philippines, she started finding the pieces through film, art, and community. In 2018, she was selected as one of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ Thirteen Artists awardees, a recognition given to groundbreaking visual artists. Three years later, Seno was tasked to curate the exhibit for the same prestigious award.
This interview was edited for clarity and brevity.Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, went to university in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles with her father before finding home in Manila. Her work entitled “A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” is part of the work-in-progress feature film, “The Wild Duck,” an exploration of her father’s migration to the United States in the early 2000s. Her life journey is akin to the migratory birds she films. For most of the filmmaker’s life, she has gone searching for the meaning of home.
An international student all her school days, Seno struggled with belonging. Being neither here nor there, she started asking fundamental questions about identity, place, and purpose. On her return to the Philippines, she started finding the pieces through film, art, and community. In 2018, she was selected as one of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ Thirteen Artists awardees, a recognition given to groundbreaking visual artists. Three years later, Seno was tasked to curate the exhibit for the same prestigious award.
This interview was edited for clarity and brevity.Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, educated in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles before finding home in Manila. When was the turning point of feeling that you needed to connect to your Filipino identity? When I was in Toronto, I realized that I didn’t know what I was doing. Why here? Why am I trying so hard to stay here? Then, I realized that I had to go back. I had this empty feeling growing up. [There was an] abyss, [an] emptiness inside.
I was alone in Canada for a good six years. I needed to be alone. I needed to go away. I needed to realize what was missing, what I wanted to figure out.
I wanted to become an architect [so] I took up Bachelor of Arts in architectural studies. In one summer session, I took up a film class. I really loved it but I was still trying to do this architecture degree. I ended up taking these two courses that changed my outlook. I also took a class named Japanese cinemas. It was basically looking at the parallel development of cinema and capitalism in Japan.
So, you were never exposed to Japanese cinema in Japan? Yes. It was an amazing class because it was really looking at these films and the form of the films, not just what’s it about but how it’s made. That time was my awakening to politics and how I connected to the bigger picture. Growing up, I didn’t understand all these things happening in Japan. It really awakened me to have a stance on things.
So, I took another class called architecture media and communications. It was looking at architecture but from the point of view of different kinds of media. It was looking at architecture but through things other than buildings, other than the environment. Both of these classes had this effect on me so I decided to do a double major.
Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, educated in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles before finding home in Manila. When was the turning point of feeling that you needed to connect to your Filipino identity? When I was in Toronto, I realized that I didn’t know what I was doing. Why here? Why am I trying so hard to stay here? Then, I realized that I had to go back. I had this empty feeling growing up. [There was an] abyss, [an] emptiness inside.
I was alone in Canada for a good six years. I needed to be alone. I needed to go away. I needed to realize what was missing, what I wanted to figure out.
I wanted to become an architect [so] I took up Bachelor of Arts in architectural studies. In one summer session, I took up a film class. I really loved it but I was still trying to do this architecture degree. I ended up taking these two courses that changed my outlook. I also took a class named Japanese cinemas. It was basically looking at the parallel development of cinema and capitalism in Japan.
So, you were never exposed to Japanese cinema in Japan? Yes. It was an amazing class because it was really looking at these films and the form of the films, not just what’s it about but how it’s made. That time was my awakening to politics and how I connected to the bigger picture. Growing up, I didn’t understand all these things happening in Japan. It really awakened me to have a stance on things.
So, I took another class called architecture media and communications. It was looking at architecture but from the point of view of different kinds of media. It was looking at architecture but through things other than buildings, other than the environment. Both of these classes had this effect on me so I decided to do a double major. “I was hearing about this independent film scene and I felt like how I would love to go and watch these films, first of all, but also go back [to Manila] to get a sense of what it was like making films.” When I was in film studies, I spent a lot of time in public libraries and I found one branch that had a VHS copy of Kidlat Tahimik’s “Perfumed Nightmare.” It blew my mind. Then shortly after, there were some films that were coming to the Toronto International Film Festival. There’s Lav Diaz, Raya Martin, Khavn De La Cruz, and John Torres. I was hearing about this independent film scene and I felt like how I would love to go and watch these films, first of all, but also go back [to Manila] to get a sense of what it was like making films.
I went to a Philippine Independent Filmmakers Cooperative meeting in Galleria. I made my own handwritten business card and I didn’t know anyone. I just showed up. I met Kidlat Tahimik, Raya, and John. I made friends with them. I also met Alexis Tioseco, a young film critic. He was so welcoming and such a breath of fresh air coming from Japan where there are certain ways of doing things when you meet someone. Through him, I watched a lot of experimental films. He connected me to Lav and ended up tagging along in a shoot of “Melancholia.” “To Pick A Flower,” Seno’s latest project, was a commissioned work for an exhibition in Taiwan. “It was an exhibition focusing on early photography in Taiwan but I was commissioned to do artistic research as a way to destabilize the focus on Taiwan and show how the histories of the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries are intertwined.” “To Pick A Flower,” Seno’s latest project, was a commissioned work for an exhibition in Taiwan. “It was an exhibition focusing on early photography in Taiwan but I was commissioned to do artistic research as a way to destabilize the focus on Taiwan and show how the histories of the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries are intertwined.” Would you say that you first felt that sense of community in the Philippines? Yeah. I mean aside from growing up in a very small, tight-knit community growing up, this was different. You don’t choose to grow up in your high school; you were just put there. It’s more of something like you find your own place in the world. I felt like I found a place where I felt comfortable and excited. I belonged in a way. “[Filmmaking is] kind of like therapy to understand all these things that make you who you are.” So, you went back to Manila and tried to learn about history and the different cultural contexts that have influenced the Filipino identity. Was this your primary reason? I don’t like to put broad words like the “Filipino identity.” I’m more interested in the details, really. Not putting any labels on things. I guess I make films as a way to process things that I don’t understand or some experience that I’d like to understand better. It’s kind of like therapy to understand all these things that make you who you are.
Doing that feels like a very heavy or complicated process to do by yourself. Do you have a support system that helps you build these films? I definitely have a co-conspirator in John [Torres], my husband and partner from the beginning. He was someone I looked up to. Seeing his films before I started making [them], he always encouraged me to do my own. In the beginning, I would help him (aside from Lav). He was in the middle of something when I came around but he was always pushing me. I saw his process or way of working—writing some bits and pieces, then getting more support—and then that will enable him to continue to do that, to write, to shoot more, to keep at it. Seno’s films, which center on memory, history, and image-making, have been screened both locally and abroad, from Museum of Contemporary Art and Design Manila to Toronto International Film Festival. “We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” “We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” In a world where millions put out content, did you ever feel any pressure to create more and faster? I’ll burn out if I keep up with the pace of these things. I go by my own pace. I’m just getting by. Both of us are independent filmmakers and artists so we live off grants. We’re quite fortunate to find a way to stay afloat in the worlds of film and also art. Being on the fringes of both has been a good thing for us.
From being an artist, how did you become a curator? Was it a natural progression for you? It hasn’t been so linear. In the beginning, I wanted to show works. I wasn’t thinking of making my own. My original impulse was to show the works of others. I go back and forth between curating and organizing.
What is your curation process like? I tend to stick quite open throughout the process. I like the unpredictability. Coming in without having any preconceived ideas is really challenging but is also refreshing. It’s a good kind of adrenaline that you get when trying to figure out what fits… like a puzzle. “We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” The 2021 Thirteen Artists Awards exhibition curated by Seno features 13 mid-career Filipino artists and their works. It will run until June 5 at the CCP Bulwagang Juan Luna, Pasilyo Juan Luna, and Pasilyo Guillermo Tolentino. Video courtesy of CCP Visual Arts and Museum How was the experience like curating for last year’s CCP 13 Artists Award? I was quite surprised because I just won from the last batch but I was very humbled to be asked. I felt kind of overwhelmed because at that time, [in June 2021], I had just given birth to our second child in April. I was still trying to recover from giving birth and just trying to get by as a parent of now two kids. So, I was like, “How was I going to do this? How am I going to put together this show during a pandemic?”
It was overwhelming but maybe it was worth it because at least I made new friends. They’re all artists that I admired and there are some artists that I was unfamiliar with that I wanted to see. I had been out of the loop since 2018 when I had my first kid. So I thought it was a way to catch up on what was going on, make new friends, and challenge myself to put on an exhibition.
I really enjoy working with space. I guess it brings together my unfulfilled ambition in architecture before. “I’m still skimming the surface of myself, my memories, my relationships to others.” How did you navigate the film and art industries as a woman? I’m always uncomfortable with these kinds of questions “as a woman.” But it’s real—the struggle is real. But for me, I’ve been lucky to have the support of my partner. We always make works together. When I direct, he’s always produced my work.
You were also recently a mother. Did it also influence your art or has it influenced your art already? I think so. It definitely influenced my sense of time. I have to be on my toes all the time. As a parent, you have to be ready for anything. It made me realize that I don’t have all the time in the world. I’ve always struggled with procrastination.
We’ve recently thought about how to balance family and to continue to make. We think the best way is to incorporate it to our work, this idea of family, to have them be part of it. It’s really the only way to keep making.
Being a parent really turned my life around. I feel like I have no time—except when they’re finally asleep—for myself. And that’s a struggle but to have that limitation is a good thing I think. To make me create things in this strange semi-asleep state you know, the wee hours of the morning. It’s that kind of twilight time. In between being awake and asleep but that’s very productive because I feel like the subliminal starts to mix with reality. A mother of two, the filmmaker and artist resides in Quezon City, where she is happy to be living adjacent to green public spaces.
Her second feature, “Nervous Translation”, a film set in the post-People Power Revolution years through the eyes of an eight-year-old, will be on show at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London this April. Two of the themes I observed in your work are movement and space. So, quite a cheesy question, but what keeps you moving forward? There are still so many things to work out. We’re never finished being. We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring. We’re always in a process of becoming. We’re never fully formed. So, I think that definitely drives my practice.
I’m still skimming the surface of myself, my memories, my relationships to others. I’m feeling my way through. I think the idea of scale is something that has found its way into my work—to bounce between the details and then serve the bigger picture. My making of works is just a way to understand what we’ve been through and what I am going through.
Anything else in the works this year? I have a residency in Berlin this year. I’ll focus on writing or trying to write the script of “The Wild Duck.” There’s never really a total script. It’s really just a guide. We’re hopefully trying to keep that tension between the staged and unstaged. To keep that sense of being alive and not having everything planned. ● Part III of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month SpecialFor Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking. Written by Denise Alcantara Cover photography by Joseph Pascual Creative direction by Nimu Muallam Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
PROFILE
Jessica Dorizac’s many-layered paper pieces and the patterns they won’t give away
“My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape,” the artist says of her geometric works that resist pattern-finding
Interview by by SEPTEMBER GRACE MAHINO Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL
Interview by by SEPTEMBER GRACE MAHINO
Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL
Artist Jessica Dorizac was preparing for her return to Brisbane, Australia when we caught up with her for this feature. She hasn’t been home in four years. As she packs for another country, one would hardly suspect the move is happening. For one, she has two ongoing shows: a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez, and a solo show at the cafe/exhibition space in Escolta called The Den. Much like her husband and artist in-laws, Dorizac’s work explores the possibilities of material art, particularly wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, along with construction paper, cardboard, and corrugated board.
In both spaces, Dorizac’s works command attention through a cacophony of colors, shapes, and textures; collages, if you may call them, that defy the basic human instinct to seek patterns in the unfamiliar.
Assemblage is not foreign to the artist, who, prior to returning to Australia to finish her degree in fine arts, resided in Los Baños, Laguna. There at the Fruit Juice Factory, with her husband, artist Miguel Aquilizan, her artist in-laws Isabel and Alfredo Aquilizan, and eight dogs, she toyed with the possibilities of materials in art. It is, after all, a family signature, from Isabel and Alfredo’s wings of sickles to Miguel’s wood and metal sculptures, and to Dorizac’s own colorful layers of cutout paper pieces.
In this interview, we talked to the artist after she touched down in the Land Down Under, where she says she’s experiencing a kind of culture shock coming back. She jokes that her Australian accent is gone and that she’s now full Pinay. When asked about plans to return to Laguna, Dorizac says she’ll go back and forth between her two homes. In both spaces, Dorizac’s works command attention through a cacophony of colors, shapes, and textures; collages, if you may call them, that defy the basic human instinct to seek patterns in the unfamiliar.
Assemblage is not foreign to the artist, who, prior to returning to Australia to finish her degree in fine arts, resided in Los Baños, Laguna. There at the Fruit Juice Factory, with her husband, artist Miguel Aquilizan, her artist in-laws Isabel and Alfredo Aquilizan, and eight dogs, she toyed with the possibilities of materials in art. It is, after all, a family signature, from Isabel and Alfredo’s wings of sickles to Miguel’s wood and metal sculptures, and to Dorizac’s own colorful layers of cutout paper pieces.
In this interview, we talked to the artist after she touched down in the Land Down Under, where she says she’s experiencing a kind of culture shock coming back. She jokes that her Australian accent is gone and that she’s now full Pinay. When asked about plans to return to Laguna, Dorizac says she’ll go back and forth between her two homes.
This interview was edited for clarity and brevity.“My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods.”
Dorizac was born in Brisbane, Australia but hasn’t been there in four years. Her body of work is informed by historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments, especially those found in the architecture in the Philippines.
You were born in Brisbane, Australia, and until recently were based in Los Baños, Laguna. Could you share your journey from Australia to the Philippines? When and under what circumstances did you make your move?
Born and raised in the sunshine state of Australia. Deep in suburbia, amongst the landscape of Queenslander houses and the unique flora and fauna of Australia. My parents are both migrants, my mother from the Philippines and my father from New Zealand (Aotearoa).
Love was the circumstance under which I made the move to the Philippines. I met my husband Miguel in 2015, we wed in 2016, and decided Philippines would be the place where we would begin to build our lives together, working alongside each other. With the support of Miguel’s parents, we were able to make the move in 2018 and have been there since. It’s been a wonderful but challenging journey, learning about contemporary Philippine culture and society, and deepening the relationship with my Pinoy side.
The world is now into its third year of living in a pandemic. Have you noticed a clear demarcation in your creative/artistic process between the “before” and “after” relative to the pandemic? In particular, has the pandemic affected your view of productivity as an artist?
The pandemic marked the end of an era. It gave the opportunity to focus deeply on practice without the distractions of the outside world, which is ironic considering the situation.
My work before and after the pandemic is evidently different through exploration of wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, construction paper, cardboard, corrugated board. My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods.
Dorizac was born in Brisbane, Australia but hasn’t been there in four years. Her body of work is informed by historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments, especially those found in the architecture in the Philippines.
You were born in Brisbane, Australia, and until recently were based in Los Baños, Laguna. Could you share your journey from Australia to the Philippines? When and under what circumstances did you make your move?
Born and raised in the sunshine state of Australia. Deep in suburbia, amongst the landscape of Queenslander houses and the unique flora and fauna of Australia. My parents are both migrants, my mother from the Philippines and my father from New Zealand (Aotearoa).
Love was the circumstance under which I made the move to the Philippines. I met my husband Miguel in 2015, we wed in 2016, and decided Philippines would be the place where we would begin to build our lives together, working alongside each other. With the support of Miguel’s parents, we were able to make the move in 2018 and have been there since. It’s been a wonderful but challenging journey, learning about contemporary Philippine culture and society, and deepening the relationship with my Pinoy side.
The world is now into its third year of living in a pandemic. Have you noticed a clear demarcation in your creative/artistic process between the “before” and “after” relative to the pandemic? In particular, has the pandemic affected your view of productivity as an artist?
The pandemic marked the end of an era. It gave the opportunity to focus deeply on practice without the distractions of the outside world, which is ironic considering the situation.
My work before and after the pandemic is evidently different through exploration of wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, construction paper, cardboard, corrugated board. My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods.
“I don’t work from a singular idea; I work from a continuation in practice.”
“Decorative Disposition” is a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez
Your current show at Project Space Pilipinas is part of the art initiative/platform’s celebration of Women’s Month. Could you share the idea behind “Decorative Disposition”? How long did it take for you to create all the pieces that became part of the exhibit?
The works shown in “Decorative Disposition” were made from 2018 through to 2022. They are the totality of my time spent here in the Philippines. Project Space Pilipinas does the necessary work to bring art to the people. Nestled in the small town of Lucban, PSP prides itself on bringing high-quality exhibitions, without the showbiz, to the citizens. Their program for 2022 is dedicated to female artists, cultural workers, and arts professionals. I am very grateful to have been invited to share my work with the support of PSP.
Your art is also on show at The Den. Can you describe as well the idea behind “Assorted Ornaments”?
The title “Assorted Ornaments” is a poke at artworks being purely ornamental.
I don’t work from a singular idea; I work from a continuation in practice. But the choice of words for the title is a [pondering] on artworks purely consumed as ornamental wall pieces. And I do think about that a lot, especially because of the deep relationship the art community has with the art market. “Decorative Disposition” is a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez.
“Patterns and shapes are universal and it’s interesting to see their application over the documented human history, and more interesting to see them in an unexpected arrangement that makes space for new conversations.”
“Evening in Floor Plans”
Paper, wooden frame
68cm x 61cm
2022
On display at The Den in Escolta for “Assorted Ornaments” until April 12 and online at thedenmanila.com“Evening in Floor Plans” | Paper, wooden frame | 68cm x 61cm | 2022
On display at The Den in Escolta for “Assorted Ornaments” until April 12 and online at thedenmanila.comWhat attracts you to using collage and assemblage to express your ideas? Has this been a medium that you’ve always used and been interested in or have there been others that you’ve explored before? In any case, what does the use of this media draw out from you?
I gravitate to collage and assemblage because I enjoy the meditative process of it. The collecting, deconstructing, and organizing.
Your exhibit notes for “Assorted Ornaments” cite your current fascination with historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments in architecture. Patterns are usually deceptively simplistic regardless of their level of intricacy, meaning they were designed to evoke a sense of reliability and even safety in their predictability. Speaking as someone viewing your pieces, your art, however, bucks that sense of predictability with the layered elements that disrupt the order of the previously set motifs and set off another pattern (though less immediately discernible) on their own. Is that an intentional decision on your part?
It’s both subconscious and conscious; the decisions of the layered elements that disrupt the order of one layer to begin the next. The nature of how I approach my work is quite painterly, many-layered. “I gravitate to collage and assemblage because I enjoy the meditative process of it. The collecting, deconstructing, and organizing,” the artist says.
Given the very human tendency to look for patterns, what do you enjoy (if any) about jolting the audience out of their complacency, at least in the visual sense?
Patterns and shapes are universal and it’s interesting to see their application over the documented human history, and more interesting to see them in an unexpected arrangement that makes space for new conversations.
I am drawn particularly to accidental, painterly compositions found in my immediate environment where various patterns, motifs, colors, textures, and lines are found amongst each other. There is a lot of this play found in the process of interior decoration, too.
As a woman in the arts, how does your womanhood help define or inform your art? And what challenges do you still see women artists face despite their tremendous contribution to the art world, not just in terms of creative output and ideas but also invisible/emotional labor?
I experience life through the lens of being a woman. As I’ve grown into an adult and seen, read, and listened to other women, and their herstory. I’ve realized the first step to protect, defend, and support women is to be active and aware of the many varied challenges that we women face in everyday life, politically, socially, emotionally, spiritually, and professionally. That in itself is invisible labor that we are doing and [I] hope everyone can join us in listening to these conversations.
What can we look forward to from you after your two current exhibits?
I have two upcoming exhibits, one is on April 9 for the Libris Awards: The Australian Artists’ Book Prize exhibition at Artspace Mackay here in Australia. The other will be on April 23 in the Philippines. It’s called “Pilgrimage”, a duo show with Miguel at Modeka in Makati. ● Part II of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month SpecialFor Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking.
Interview by September Grace Mahino
Cover photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
PROFILE
Marita Ganse’s art quilts are all about memories
The model talks about the art of quilting, her time as a furrier, and finding joy in a slow process
Words by TONI POTENCIANO Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL
In 2018, model Marita Fe Ganse asked her collaborators at Eairth, a local clothing brand, if she could use their retaso to turn into quilts.
Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt. Her largest project to date—abstract quilt 5 “Pandora’s Box”—is for her friend chef Victor Magsaysay’s home in Subic.
“I learned about the community of women that creates the quilts of Gee’s Bend and I was taken by their beautiful geometrically intricate quilts. I knew right away that I wanted to make my own quilts,” Ganse writes in an email.
She’s referring to a historically Black community that lived in an isolated hamlet along Alabama river, whose roots trace back as far as the early 19th-century cotton slave trade. Ferry services to and from the community were only restored in 2006, which meant that the small community of roughly 300 inhabitants lived in relative isolation for more than a hundred years.
But isolation is sometimes the bedfellow of creativity. The women of Gee’s Bend developed a tradition of quiltmaking which was passed down from mother to daughter. The quilts were then a departure from traditional quiltmaking. Gee’s Bend quilts were distinct, known for their “lively improvisations and geometric simplicity.” In 2003, 60 Bender quilts made from 1930 to 2000 were exhibited at the Whitney Museum. The New York Times called it some of the most “miraculous works of modern art America has ever produced.”
In a similar fashion, 36-year-old Ganse turned to quiltmaking during Manila’s strictest lockdowns. She begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Afterwards, each of her quilts are painstakingly handsewn. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt.
“It is a slow process that I really enjoy and don’t want to rush,” she says.
“I learned about the community of women that creates the quilts of Gee’s Bend and I was taken by their beautiful geometrically intricate quilts. I knew right away that I wanted to make my own quilts,” Ganse writes in an email.
She’s referring to a historically Black community that lived in an isolated hamlet along Alabama river, whose roots trace back as far as the early 19th-century cotton slave trade. Ferry services to and from the community were only restored in 2006, which meant that the small community of roughly 300 inhabitants lived in relative isolation for more than a hundred years.
But isolation is sometimes the bedfellow of creativity. The women of Gee’s Bend developed a tradition of quiltmaking which was passed down from mother to daughter. The quilts were then a departure from traditional quiltmaking. Gee’s Bend quilts were distinct, known for their “lively improvisations and geometric simplicity.” In 2003, 60 Bender quilts made from 1930 to 2000 were exhibited at the Whitney Museum. The New York Times called it some of the most “miraculous works of modern art America has ever produced.”
In a similar fashion, 36-year-old Ganse turned to quiltmaking during Manila’s strictest lockdowns. She begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Afterwards, each of her quilts are painstakingly handsewn. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt.
“It is a slow process that I really enjoy and don’t want to rush,” she tells me.
Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt. Her largest project to date—abstract quilt 5 “Pandora’s Box”—is for her friend chef Victor Magsaysay’s home in Subic.
On modeling and training to become a furrier
In 2021, Ganse exhibited four quilts at The Den Manila, each piece a play on the tension between colors and shapes. The quilts were created between August to September of that year, around the time the second enhanced community quarantine was imposed. “Each stitch is connected to a moment, a breath, a story,” she writes on Instagram.
Filipina-German Ganse has been living in Manila since 2008. She became muse and model of choice for many high fashion editorials and runways, walking for Tippi Ocampo, Jojie Lloren, and Rajo Laurel. She also frequently modeled for small, slow fashion labels like Rô, Eairth, Áraw, and Josanna. But before her life in Manila, Ganse was training to become a professional furrier.
“I studied fur design in Germany and worked with a couple of fur designers at the same time back in 2004 until 2007. I only stopped when I moved to Manila in 2008,” she recalls. “I started with small modeling jobs when I was a teenager. The fur company I worked for just asked me to model whenever there was an event or for their lookbooks and press releases.” “Before the pandemic, everything was so fast and busy that I wasn’t aware how much I enjoy doing things slowly, and how satisfying the effects of it are.”
After more than a decade of professional modeling, I ask Ganse what it was that made her stay in such a high-pressure industry. She replies that maybe she shouldn’t have. “To be honest, I should have followed my own instinct not to go into modeling for that long,” Ganse writes. Ganse listens to audiobooks while sewing, a better alternative than music, she says, “Because then I don’t end up dancing and abandoning my quilts.” Video courtesy of artist.
Ganse listens to audiobooks while sewing, a better alternative than music, she says, “Because then I don’t end up dancing and abandoning my quilts.” Video courtesy of artist.
Early in 2020, Ganse launched Kostüm V, a selection of archival and vintage clothing she describes as “clothes she sees herself wearing.” While she quietly continues to curate the selection, her vintage collection also figures in her art quilts.
“Sometimes I buy secondhand clothes just because of the quality the fabric has, or the fabric is telling me something,” Ganse says. “I like how a textile becomes soft after many years of use and how the color changes. The DNA and story a piece of used clothing can tell is so interesting.” Textiles as art
Marita’s process begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Behind her on the kitchen wall are sketches of some her latest works.
The intersection of textile and creative disciplines became newly visible under the Berlin-born artist and designer Bauhaus master Anni Albers, whose textile tapestries were a stark contrast to the glass and steel sculptures of her modern contemporaries in the ’60s. She challenged the notion that weaving was merely women’s work, likening weaving to sculptures and architecture. In the ’70s, African-American Faith Ringgold created her famous “story quilts,” which combined oil paint and quilting techniques to tell the stories of African-American culture and to push for civil rights.
The more contemporary fiber artists have embraced the possibilities offered by the slowness and tactility of textiles in art. In an article with the NY Times, textile artist Sophia Narrett had this to say about her work: “When an object is developed by human hands for hundreds of hours, it leaves a quality in the surface that can be sensed.”
Ganse’s latest work is called “Midnight Water City,” which is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st called “Dwell on Divinities” that opened on March 23. According to Futurist co-founder Samantha Nicole, the show highlights “the otherworldliness of women, non binary, and queer artists.”
“Midnight Water City” is a mix of linen, cotton, cupro, and silk. A row of green and blue triangles run along one side of the quilt as a black moon rises on their horizon. A dark blue ripple gradually increases from one side to the other.
“[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.”
“[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.”
“[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.”
“I was thinking about the cold breeze at night, of sail boats moving with the wind, of a refreshing glass of water in the early hours of the morning,” Ganse tells me.
“Midnight Water City,” her latest work, is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st in Poblacion, Makati. Photos courtesy of Kiko Escora
It’s made with linen, cotton, cupro, and silk sewn together with a special Japanese thread specifically made for boro stitching called shashiko thread. Ganse favors this cotton thread for its soft yet tight twist.
“Midnight Water City,” her latest work, is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st in Poblacion, Makati.
Photos courtesy of
Kiko Escora
It’s made with linen, cotton, cupro, and silk, sewn together with a special Japanese thread called shashiko thread—which Ganse favors for its soft yet tight twist.
“Before the pandemic, everything was so fast and busy that I wasn’t aware how much I enjoy doing things slowly, and how satisfying the effects of it are. It clears my mind in a way, and helps me to find a tender way to tell stories.”
When I ask Ganse about what quilting has taught her, she tells me that it has been a lesson in enjoying the slowness, to see a quilt through without obsessing over the small details.
“[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself,” she says. ● Part I of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month SpecialFor Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking.
FEATURED QUILT
“Half Light Of Dawn”
Linen, cotton, cupro, double gauze backing,
polyfiber wadding, sashiko thread
211cm x 211cm
2022
On display at The Drawing Room as part of group show “The hem of a long conversation” curated by Con Cabrera Written by Toni Potenciano
Cover photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art drection by Levenspeil Sangalang
Actress Dexter Doria is known for her “kontrabida” roles on television. But offscreen, she is most furious about misinformation, especially surrounding martial law years under the rule of the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos.
Doria, 66, played an activist nun in a Vince Tañada-directed musical film called “Katips” last year. In an interview, she recounts her experience as a University of the Philippines student during the First Quarter Storm of 1970. She can attest to the atrocities of that period because she was there, she said.
This 2022, she has made it her personal advocacy to enlighten those who willfully believe martial law misinformation circulating on social media even though you could easily disprove these claims with a simple Google search.
“Ako po si Nana Didi, samahan niyo po akong itama ang mga mali at peke sa social media,” a post dated January 10 on the actress’ Facebook page reads. It’s accompanied by a video of her dressed as a teacher addressing a class behind the screen. Her first lesson? Confirmation bias.
Episodes of “Didiserye”, as the series is called, are relatively short at three minutes. Just enough not to drag TikTok-obsessed viewers trained to only consume minute-long media. It’s uploaded weekly on Facebook and YouTube, where false information seemed to have found its captive audience.
Actress Dexter Doria on set of her new online web series “Didiserye.” Photo screengrabbed from Dexter Doria/Facebook
With just two episodes out, the series seemed to have hit gold with social media-savvy millennials and Gen Z. The first episode has been viewed over half a million times and shared eleven thousand times on Facebook with twenty-three thousand reactions. Apart from its short attention span-friendly duration, Doria’s delivery is easy to get along with, casual but still maintains an air of authority, thanks to her teacher character.
It’s not alienating for older audiences outside of the two aforementioned demographics, too. Doria, if anything, seems like a tita speaking to her amigas over a video call, albeit the tea being facts and not mere rumors.
Nana Didi’s motto in the show is “Hindi paninira ang pagsasabi ng totoo,” a comeback at critics who are likely to target the show for so-called bias. After all, the elections are just a few months away and the son of the late dictator is running as president. Her latest video released this week debunks martial law myths about the country’s supposed “golden era” and the so-called “comfortable life” Filipinos lived during the Marcoses’ decades-long regime.
Admittedly, the actress is not keen on voting for Ferdinand Marcos Jr. though. “Kasi, hindi lang naman dahil yung tatay, ginawa ito, e. It’s because… yung taong tatakbo, wala talagang kaalam-alam,” she said in one interview.
Nonetheless, what she wants viewers to take away from “Didiserye” is not to take sides, but to not take anything at face value and learn how to fact-check. A timely reminder as we near election season.
Doria’s series is a refreshing sight to see on our feeds often riddled with news about this and that politician lumped together with political ads.
As one millennial friend put it, “I wish all boomers are like her.”
