PROFILE
The unending humanity of Geloy Concepcion photographs
He is a photographer, confidant, and keeper of internet strangers’ dreams, desires, and pains that social media would rather not show you
Words by CHRISTIAN SAN JOSE Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL
Geloy Concepcion’s photographs and subsequent works—sepia-tinged images reminiscent of photos stuck inside near-forgotten family albums, scribbled over with unsaid words from internet strangers—often bring the viewer to tears. But in person, the 30-year-old Pandacan, Manila native is surprisingly comedic.
“Ito ‘yong namiss ko sa Philippines,” imitating a balikbayan’s American accent. We were traversing an eskinita in his childhood neighborhood one morning a week after Traslacion and their barangay fiesta. “Mababangga ka na [ng sasakyan] pero ipipilit mo pa ring mangumusta.” He, for sure, didn’t miss the chance to greet his neighbors. All of them are surprised that he’s in town. Geloy obliges, approaches them smiling, and tries to remind elderly men and women who he is.
He wore a T-shirt from the Feast of the Black Nazarene, which he hadn’t partaken in in five years, having not missed a single one before he immigrated to San Francisco, where he now lives with his wife and 5-year-old daughter. The religious tradition has now changed, he says, “’Di ka na makalapit sa poon.” Historically, millions of devotees risk their lives for a chance to lay their hands on the Black Nazarene, even if that meant contorting themselves and gasping for air at every move. He was content just to see the wave of limbs flow along as if moved by something divine.
Manila’s grit elicits either empathy or apathy in a person. Geloy knows the latter is illusory. Stuck in Legarda traffic, the photographer laments that rich people think they’ve escaped the city’s realities—like traffic—by virtue of money. They haven’t. We’re all stuck here. For better or worse. Reality forces you into a diluted form of empathy. Geloy grew up in Pandacan, close to the Manila side of the Pasig River. Its grit inspired him to pursue street art. This was before he decided the best way to actually experience the city and know its people is through photography.
Geloy’s photographic and anecdotal initiative on Instagram began with a folder of unused film images he unearthed and a question he posted on Instagram Stories in November 2019: “What are the things you wanted to say but you never did?”
Why this question? “Nagsimula kasi ‘yan marami din akong naiisip na gustong sabihin. Kung may ganon ako, may ganon din ‘yong ibang tao. Parang ganon.”
This was when he was newly transplanted to the US. In the Philippines, Geloy worked as a photographer commissioned by local publications. Meanwhile in San Francisco, because of delays in the immigration process, it took him three years to get a work permit, and when he finally did, the pandemic happened. This left him questioning whether he should still pursue photography.
“Sabi ko sa asawa ko, ‘Ibebenta ko na lang [ang mga camera ko] para ma-stretch natin ‘yong budget ng ilang buwan pa siguro habang naghahanap ako ng work,’” he recalls. But before he did that, he convinced himself that he would do one last project. And from there, the creative crowdsourcing initiative that now receives upwards of 1,000 responses a week from anonymous senders all over the world was born.
“Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did” has over 80,000 messages tallied in a spreadsheet as of writing, and Geloy more or less knows what his letter senders want to say. Themes include mental health, childhood trauma, sexual abuse, issues with parents, grief, pain, and regret—seemingly taboo topics on social media platforms where influencers and brands thrive on, and thus continue to, peddle positive messaging for optimal engagement.
This is the great paradox of not just Instagram, where Geloy posts the Jim Goldberg-inspired photographs, but any social networking site: The algorithm prioritizes feel-good (sometimes bordering toxic positivity, mistaken for authenticity) content that ultimately makes a majority of its users feel anything but good—in most cases, insecure, lonely, and depressed. Facebook’s (since rebranded as Meta, which also owns Instagram) own 2021 report on the effects of its products, specifically Instagram, details its harmful effects, particularly on teenage girls.
“Ito ‘yong namiss ko sa Philippines,” imitating a balikbayan’s American accent. We were traversing an eskinita in his childhood neighborhood one morning a week after Traslacion and their barangay fiesta. “Mababangga ka na [ng sasakyan] pero ipipilit mo pa ring mangumusta.” He, for sure, didn’t miss the chance to greet his neighbors. All of them are surprised that he’s in town. Geloy obliges, approaches them smiling, and tries to remind elderly men and women who he is.
He wore a T-shirt from the Feast of the Black Nazarene, which he hadn’t partaken in in five years, having not missed a single one before he immigrated to San Francisco, where he now lives with his wife and 5-year-old daughter. The religious tradition has now changed, he says, “’Di ka na makalapit sa poon.” Historically, millions of devotees risk their lives for a chance to lay their hands on the Black Nazarene, even if that meant contorting themselves and gasping for air at every move. He was content just to see the wave of limbs flow along as if moved by something divine.
Manila’s grit elicits either empathy or apathy in a person. Geloy knows the latter is illusory. The photographer laments that rich people think they’ve escaped the city’s realities like traffic by virtue of money. They haven’t. We’re all stuck here. For better or worse. Reality forces you into a diluted form of empathy.
Geloy’s photographic and anecdotal initiative on Instagram began with a folder of unused film images he unearthed and a question he posted on Instagram Stories in November 2019: “What are the things you wanted to say but you never did?”
Why this question? “Nagsimula kasi ‘yan marami din akong naiisip na gustong sabihin. Kung may ganon ako, may ganon din ‘yong ibang tao. Parang ganon.”
Geloy grew up in Pandacan, close to the Manila side of the Pasig River. Its grit inspired him to pursue street art. This was before he decided the best way to actually experience the city and know its people is through photography.
This was when he was newly transplanted to the US. In the Philippines, Geloy worked as a photographer commissioned by local publications. Meanwhile in San Francisco, because of delays in the immigration process, it took him three years to get a work permit, and when he finally did, the pandemic happened. This left him questioning whether he should still pursue photography.
“Sabi ko sa asawa ko, ‘Ibebenta ko na lang [ang mga camera ko] para ma-stretch natin ‘yong budget ng ilang buwan pa siguro habang naghahanap ako ng work,’” he recalls. But before he did that, he convinced himself that he would do one last project. And from there, the creative crowdsourcing initiative that now receives upwards of 1,000 responses a week from anonymous senders all over the world was born.
Geloy’s drawn-over photos are seething reminders of humanity that tend to be overlooked in an unending scroll of conflictless facade lives.
“Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did” has over 80,000 messages tallied in a spreadsheet as of writing, and Geloy more or less knows what his letter senders want to say. Themes include mental health, childhood trauma, sexual abuse, issues with parents, grief, pain, and regret—seemingly taboo topics on social media platforms where influencers and brands thrive on, and thus continue to, peddle positive messaging for optimal engagement.
This is the great paradox of not just Instagram, where Geloy posts the Jim Goldberg-inspired photographs, but any social networking site: The algorithm prioritizes feel-good (sometimes bordering toxic positivity, mistaken for authenticity) content that ultimately makes a majority of its users feel anything but good—in most cases, insecure, lonely, and depressed. Facebook’s (since rebranded as Meta, which also owns Instagram) own 2021 report on the effects of its products, specifically Instagram, details its harmful effects, particularly on teenage girls.
Geloy’s drawn-over photos are seething reminders of humanity that tend to be overlooked in an unending scroll of conflictless facade lives. They refuse to cover the mess of being alive beyond the confines of a grid. So far, Instagram has not taken down any of it for violation of its absurd community guidelines that further its own positive messaging agenda. It helps that his respondents have a way with words, tiptoeing around flagged topics with words that resonate with a wide audience.
He is his own content moderator. Though only ten photos get posted a week partly because of Instagram’s photo carousel limit, he reads everything. Geloy picks which ones make it to the roster out of the thousands he receives within the same period. Though it is less about filtering through words and more about lending an ear to these anonymous messages.
“Karamihan feeling ko gusto lang nilang may makinig. Kaya lagi kong sinasabi, ‘yon ‘yong pinakarule ko d’on sa project: babasahin ko talaga kada isa para lang alam nila na may nagbasa nung sinulat nila,” he says. (Most people are just looking for someone to listen. That’s why I make sure to read through each of the submissions so they know someone’s on the other side.) His wife Bea and their daughter, with whom he lives now in San Francisco, are frequent subjects of his photos. Photos from Geloy’s Instagram
Thousands of strangers on the internet send anecdotes and photos to Geloy every week, which he then turns into these Jim Goldberg-inspired photographs
His wife Bea and their daughter, with whom he lives now in San Francisco, are frequent subjects of his photos. Photos from Geloy’s Instagram
Thousands of strangers on the internet send anecdotes and photos to Geloy every week, which he then turns into these Jim Goldberg-inspired photographs
His best friend, photographer Geric Cruz, believes there is no person better suited for this task than Geloy. Cruz attests to Concepcion’s innate compassion that empowers people to open up to him easily. “Iba kasi ‘yong charisma ni Geloy,” Cruz ponders. “Siguro nararamdaman ng mga tao na authentic siya and relatable. It takes his personality and ‘yong pagkatao niya to handle ‘yon ganong responsibility [of a huge collaborative undertaking].”
They met during their internship at the now-defunct documentary television show “Storyline” and have since become confidants in life and in art. “Naalala ko ‘yong first day naming nagkita. Nag-taxi kami sabay pauwi kasi taga-Pandacan sya, ako taga-Malate. Tapos from Quezon City to Manila sobrang dami naming napag-usapan. Na-feel ko na parang nag-connect kami agad.”
They were eventually hired as regular videographers/photographers a year later. Cruz’s circle of photographer friends, which included Jake Versoza and Veejay Villafranca, adopted Geloy as a part of their group, tagging him along during each other’s assignments. These are formative years that fortified the values that formed the foundation of his craft today. Among these: Beyond their work, their character should hold up to the purported goodness their photos hold. “Karamihan feeling ko gusto lang nilang may makinig. Kaya lagi kong sinasabi, ‘yon ‘yong pinakarule ko do’n sa project: babasahin ko talaga kada isa para lang alam nila na may nagbasa nung sinulat nila”
“I think ‘yon din ‘yong palaging sinabi ni Geloy: ‘Ano bang values matuturo sa iyo ng art mo? Magiging mabuti ka bang tao or magiging kupal ka?’” Cruz fondly remembers.
Tough acting as he looks, Geloy is attuned to his emotions. Cruz recalls a profound joy that once took over them during a residency in Zambales. They were in tears thinking about how lucky they were to be able to work the way they do. “It’s more of ‘yong experience din talaga. ‘Yong halaga na may hawak kaming camera at nakakapasok kami sa buhay ng ibang tao.” The project catapulted him to internet fame, now with over half a million Instagram followers and a companion book coming out in June. But even with its success, Geloy is still iffy to call it his and his alone. He considers it a channel at best through which internet strangers collaborate with him through photo and anecdote submissions. Nonetheless, his personal touch is indelible, treating every output as a portrait, even though technically not all photos have a person it in (at times, there’s a hastily drawn human silhouette in white). “May tao na nagsabi non. Hindi lang natin sila kilala,” he said in an interview last year.
Early in his career as a freelance photographer in the US, he wrestled with a related conundrum on ownership not just of the output but its narrative. A friend once asked him, “Bakit mo kinukunan ‘yan, bakit mo kinukuwento ‘yan, e hindi naman ikaw ‘yan?” referring to Geloy’s photographs of Pride festivities in Los Angeles. Instead of letting this comment get to him, he thought of how he can tell his own story. “May tsansa kang makasali. May tsansa ring hindi. Pero okay lang, at least, napu-push mo lagi [ang sarili mo]. Ako ‘yon lang din tina-try ko, ‘Hanggang saan ba puwede?’”
“May tsansa kang makasali. May tsansa ring hindi. Pero okay lang, at least, napu-push mo lagi [ang sarili mo]. Ako ‘yon lang din tina-try ko, ‘Hanggang saan ba puwede?’”
The beginnings of his immigrant life seemed like fertile ground. He began documenting his everyday experiences together with stories of fellow transplants acclimating to a different culture. But then the pandemic limited his mobility to reach these subjects prompting him to focus his lens on his wife and their then-baby daughter.
It took Geloy’s parents two years to pay off his first camera. “Sa tingin ko, kung wala akong kamera, nandoon pa rin ako sa amin,” he said in an interview last year.
In a post dated March 7, 2021, he wrote of how fatherhood changed his art. “Back then, I just wanted my photos to punch you straight [in] the face when you see them. Everything started to change in 2017 when my daughter Narra was born. I [began] to shoot in color. I noticed that I now enjoy taking pictures of things that bring peace to me like flowers, empty spaces, quiet corners, clouds, and everything that includes my wife and daughter.”
This series was later called “Sanctuario: Ang Pakikipagsapalaran ni Isagani sa Bansang America.” It was then exhibited at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) in March 2022, part of its belated Thirteen Artists Awards (TAA) 2021 showcase, whose roster of visual and multi-disciplinary artist awardees included Geloy.
“More than half of the jury was interested in how he expanded on and investigated, and in a way critiqued traditional notions of photography by incorporating community involvement, interaction, and appropriation in his works,” Rica Estrada of CCP Visual Arts and Museum Division said. Photos from CCP
The prestigious awards program first orchestrated by CCP’s then-curator artist Roberto Chabet in 1970 recognizes artists who grasped to “restructure, restrengthen, and renew artmaking and art thinking that lend viability to Philippine art.”
“Aside from being in agreement on the excellence of Geloy as a photographer, more than half of the jury was interested in how he expanded on and investigated, and in a way critiqued traditional notions of photography by incorporating community involvement, interaction, and appropriation in his works,” Rica Estrada of the CCP Visual Arts and Museum Division, who was part of the TAA selection committee, said in an email.
Geloy is one of only a dozen recipients of the award and grant in all of its 18 iterations who dabbles exclusively in photography or has photo/lens-based artworks. (Ray Albano + (1970), Johnny Manahan (1972), Nap Jamir II (1974), Boldy Tapales (1974), Litz Nievera Benipayo (1976), Tommy Hafalla (1992), Willy Magtibay (1992), Kiri Dalena (2012), Wawi Navarroza (2012), Shireen Seno (2018), Czar Kristoff (2021)) TAA considers nominations for artists engaging with contemporary visual art forms (including, but not limited to, painting, sculpture, new media, installation, performance art, photography, printmaking, and digital imaging). Its past awardees include BenCab, Lao Lianben, Imelda Cajipe Endaya, Elmer Borlongan, Eric Zamuco, Martha Atienza, and Nikki Luna.
Outside of the internet, Geloy plans to have dropboxes for messages inside prisons and homes for the elderly, where he suspects people have a lot of things to say but don’t have an outlet to do so.
Outside of the internet, Geloy plans to have dropboxes for messages inside prisons and homes for the elderly, where he suspects people have a lot of things to say but don’t have an outlet to do so.
Despite many recognitions and accolades, Geloy’s intentions remain simple: to inspire other people, particularly new photographers, knowing how tough it can sometimes be to break through in this industry. Or as Cruz puts it, “Kung paano niya ma-share ‘yong cheatcode ng art sa buhay ng tao.”
Speaking candidly after our shoot in Avenida, Geloy illustrates, “Sa LA nga, every day may dumadating don na 100 na magaling na photographers mula sa bansa nila. Lahat ‘yan determinado.” But often, because of the competitive nature and precarity of the creative industry, some eventually lose faith. Amid that rat race though, he admits, the beauty is in knowing that you have a chance. “May tsansa kang makasali. May tsansa ring hindi. Pero okay lang, at least, napu-push mo lagi [ang sarili mo]. Ako ‘yon lang din tina-try ko, ‘Hanggang saan ba puwede?’”
That weekend, he spoke to a room of some aspiring photographers and film hobbyists in Escolta together with Jilson Tiu and Aya Cabauatan in an event he organized with a local film shop on the importance of personal projects. A woman asked if the fact that “Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did” might be his biggest project stops him from starting a new one. He starts his answer in the most Geloy way, saying he couldn’t care less.
“Hindi ko siya naiisip na ‘yong gagawin kong susunod dapat mas malupet o mas malaki. Actually, ‘yong makagawa ka nga nun malaking bagay na siya e, ‘di ba? Ako ha, galing lang naman ako ng Pandacan, e. ‘Yon ‘yong lagi kong iniisip.”
“Ang plano ko makagawa ng mas malaki do’n sa project kasi mawawala din naman lahat ‘yang Instagram. Kumbaga, maganda may magawa kang something na mas tangible ba or may tulong,” he said of his next steps after his book, coming out June.
“Ang plano ko makagawa ng mas malaki do’n sa project kasi mawawala din naman lahat ‘yang Instagram. Kumbaga, maganda may magawa kang something na mas tangible ba or may tulong,” he said of his next steps after his book, coming out June.
So kung may mangyari ngayon [tulad ng] paglalabas ng libro, ganito ganiyan, basta okay na ‘yan. Kasi kapag ‘don ka galing sa amin, ang expectation ‘don ka na, e. Pagtanda mo puwedeng ikaw taga-tattoo sa buong Pandacan (his childhood dream), or ikaw ‘yong newspaper [vendor]. Basta makalabas ka malaking achievement na ‘yon.”
(I don’t pressure myself into thinking my next project should be bigger. That I was able to do the project alone is already a big thing. If anything comes out of it, then that’s okay, too. Because where I come from, you are never expected to leave. You grow old to be the best tattoo artist in town (his childhood dream) or a newspaper vendor. Just to venture out is already a big achievement.) ●
Shot on location in Quiapo, Manila
Photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Video by Samantha Ong
Produced by Christian San Jose
Judd Figuerres, advertising director Ipe Cervantes, sales manager
Judd and Ipe’s loft is warmth exemplified, with enough tchotchkes to give it its own personality: a bunch of Doraemon figurines, plants they’ve raised together, and a sprinkle of homoerotic art here and there. “Is this Nolisoli?” one staffer asks of a print of two men in coitus. “We can make it if we want to,” said another. But a kitschy framed and backlit Divisoria wallpaper of three white puppies is, for sure.
On the terrazzo kitchen counter is an orange Le Creuset Dutch oven like the one owned by the late Joan Didion, which fetched $8,000/set at an auction. Later it will be filled with dal that Ipe cooked for their group dinner, accompanied by warm billowy naan tucked inside an Owa Sylvia wicker basket with a gingham liner.
As the hours tick away and the sun retreats to the west, the space is bathed in warm light emitted by a Louis Poulsen pendant, like candlelight inviting you to take a seat on their long dinner table as Pilita Corrales (on vinyl) serenades you.
How important was it for you to have your own space in relation to your lifestyle and your work?
Ipe: This is actually the first time I moved out of my family house and be independent. So I appreciate the fact that we get to design everything to our own taste. That was fun. Like building the house from empty space to very much filled in right now with our own style. Judd: Originally, ‘yung job kasi namin is here in Makati. Before we moved here, we were based in Quezon City, so we were always traveling from QC to Makati and back every day. And when we moved here, all we wanted was our own space kasi ‘yung work namin is so stressful. Aside from picking a spot convenient to our location for work, we really wanted to build a space where hindi lang siya extension of our personality but also something na we can do things creatively na hindi siya part of our “jobs.” We really wanted to build a home na pag-uwi namin, we can just relax, and we can just be ourselves.
What’s the best thing about living in Poblacion?
Judd: Noong una, we were like, “Oh, shit, Poblacion is going to be noisy.” So when we were testing the space, we said, “Let’s just see how the noise pollution is.” So we spent a weekend here just testing kung maiingayan kami and it was maingay. And then, biglang nag lockdown. So it was, “Oh okay! Ang quiet ng Poblacion!” So we started yearning for that noise, ‘di ba? So when things started coming back, doon namin na feel na “Oh wow. Poblacion is so fun.”
Aside from that, we’re neighbors with our friends, it was so easy for us to find people to hang out with. It’s so easy for us also to find places to hang out dito. And I think—I don’t know what you call it—revenge partying? Parang ganun? So there’s so much energy! And I don’t know, like, sometimes prior to this kasi since we were living in QC, wala kaming social life masyado. So now, medyo parang feel na feel namin ‘yung energy ng Poblacion. And we really love it here.
We really wanted to build a home na pag-uwi namin, we can just relax, and we can just be ourselves.
Judd and Ipe
Ipe: And the access to different restaurants. The food choices here are amazing, unlike in QC where everything is too far. Then Rockwell is just over there. And then there’s also a palengke. Judd: There’s a palengke! Then all the clubs that play different music. You get a lot. Kasi in the morning, it’s different; sa afternoon, it’s different; at night, it’s different. So parang nagta-transform ang space every day, every hour. Kaya siya masaya.
What was the vibe you were going for when putting together this space?
Judd: When we were doing it, parang, we wanted something clean and cute— Ipe: Initially. Judd: Initially! Ipe: It was very empty, initially, but then during the pandemic— Judd: We started collecting so many things. Which is I think kind of reactionary? Because wala namang nangyayari so parang, so might as well stimulate yourself with things.
Ipe: Yeah, like Judd started collecting plants during the pandemic. Judd: I started collecting vinyl. Ipe: I started collecting vintage stuff like the vases and all the cute stuff around. Judd: So I think it’s just really whatever makes us happy.
What are your favorite parts of this space?
Judd: I love this dining room because during the day this is where we work also. Kasi dito ‘yung pinakalakas na internet. Because it’s an old building the walls are quite thick. So medyo mahina ang internet sa loob ng mga kuwarto so we always work here. This area also has the best natural light. And then at night, ‘pag magkakasama kaming lahat, kasya kaming lahat dito. So this is where we host dinners. Ipe: We love hosting dinners. Judd: So I think, for me, this. Ikaw? Ipe: Same. Like a lot of things happened on this dining table. [laughs]
I think for me it’s the person you live with more than the space.
Judd Figuerres
What makes a perfect home?
Judd: I think for me it’s the person you live with more than the space. I feel like it’s because it’s the first time we moved in together. It’s our first attempt and it was a lot of learning din from our end because, syempre, you’re going to clash at some point. But I think ‘yung lesson is through those clashes, we learn how to harmonize more. And I think for me that’s what home is. Where you can find harmony. Ipe: Yeah. Judd is home, our friends are home.
Carla Villanueva, stylist, production designer, and creative director
Photographer Hannah Reyes Morales and her husband Jon Morales used to live in this same two-bedroom apartment. Carla tells us that some of Morales’ photographs are still in one of the rooms.
She lives by herself so the other room is a de facto office, where an acrylic ghost baul filled with the bead bags she designs, which takes after a real one from Mindanao she’s inherited from her lola, is in. In one corner is a crystal display case. “I have a collection of glasses because I’m obsessed with drinking.”
Cooking she also likes, to say the least. All around the kitchen are evidence of an impending dinner: She whips a chestnut filling for a mont blanc in one bowl after accomplishing paperwork. It’s T-minus four hours before the dinner yet she doesn’t look frazzled.
“She has a way of maneuvering through chaos,” photographer Geric Cruz, who gleefully art directs as we shoot around the space, says of Carla. “She has a way of just enjoying every moment regardless of the situation.”
Our friends Hannah and Jon used to live here. We’d come visit after a night in Poblacion and hang out with them. Then randomly, I was with Geric doing pre-prod for a shoot when we ran into Hannah while we were having drinks. She joined us and mentioned that she was moving out. My grandma had just passed away and I always said that if my grandma passed away I’d move out of my mom’s house. So when she asked, “Do you know anybody who’s looking for a condo?” I was like, “me!” I love their space. Basically, I took over their lease until the end of 2021 and then moved in January. I spent like a month, fixing things up.
How different is your space now compared to before? How much did you change?
Hannah and Jon actually had a really great layout already, just a different style. So their sofa was also where I put mine, and their bed was also there as well as the kitchen. It was actually perfect, where the light hits and everything. I built this whole kitchen because I cook a lot. And then just fixed random stuff that needed to be fixed. I repainted everything, but the bones are still pretty much the same.
Everything’s like found objects that I got from different important people in my life that I collected. I think that kind of makes it home.
Carla Villanueva
How important was it for you to have your own space in relation to your lifestyle and your work?
I do a lot of production design work so I have all of these things in my room in my mom’s house. It was really, really full na. I think I was actually ready to move already and everything just kind of came together.
I think having your own space is important. I could’ve had a roommate, but I kept it as an office instead even if it’s not the smartest thing to do in terms of money and rent. I wanted to have a lot of space to do a lot of creative things. So when Mano [Gonzales] and I would do shoots together—we always collaborate—all the clothes are here and it’d change into a styling area. It’s a multipurpose kind of space for me. It’s so nice to have that because I used to work out of my room, which was super cramped.
What’s the best thing about living in Poblacion?
I don’t really participate in the Poblacion nightlife, I think most of us are just kind of in this building hanging out with each other. I think accessibility to most of the work we do like shoots are always in Makati, so that makes it kind of easier than when I used to live in Pasig. Being closer to my work and my friends. Parang when you live with your family, it’s like family life. Here, it’s more of your own life.
What was the vibe you were going for when putting together this space?
Most of everything here I didn’t buy or they’re vintage. This chair is my grandfather’s, this is my other grandfather’s record player. Everything’s like found objects that I got from different important people in my life that I collected. I think that kind of makes it home. I don’t think it’s “stuff,” I think it’s “me.” Collecting all these over the years kind of like made the style, which I didn’t realize I had until it all came together. I didn’t really go out of my way to buy anything, it just came to me when I needed it. Like, “Oh, I need a light.” Somebody will go, “I have a light!”
What are your favorite parts of this space?
The kitchen. And my lolo’s chair. Super sentimental value. I repaired this little by little over the pandemic. A long project.
Bea’s house reminds you of that one friend in college equipped with the things you wish your dorm had: a Rihanna coffee table book, an irregular blob of a mirror, and a Bottega green reproduction of that IG-famous modular bubble couch originally designed by Mario Bellini.
There’s an air of coolness amplified by the nonchalance of having just a few covetable objects in your living quarters. Think Steve Jobs photographed sitting on the floor of his California home in 1982 with nothing but an $8,200 stereo setup and an antique Tiffany lamp.
Mano Gonzales jokes, Bea just packs and unpacks here. She’s everywhere. That weekend she’ll be in Cebu. Nonetheless, she vouches for the importance of having a space in Makati, which we might have overread as having a space in the scene.
How important was it for you to have your own space in relation to your lifestyle and your work?
I’ve always lived alone since I was like 16 when I moved to Manila, so I’m used to that. I’m from Bacolod. But the pandemic really changed that ‘cause as much as I like living alone, I am a very social person. I used to live in Poblacion as well. When I moved here, it really was like a breather. I felt saner just because I had my own space, but I also had all these amazing people around me. And it was like our little safe space during the craziness of the pandemic.
What’s the best thing about living in Poblacion?
Number one for me is most of my work is here. I usually play in bars around Poblacion, so I just walk everywhere. That’s mainly the reason why I moved here. But also in general, I feel like I’m never alone because there are just so many people here.
And the food scene, you go down and you have everything from bars to restaurants to activities—everything you really need.
I never really leave Poblacion unless I really have to ‘cause everyone just ends up going here anyway. And as much as it feels a little grimy here and there, it still feels safe. It feels like home to me.
I don’t like coming into a home when it’s fully furnished. I like fixing things here and there and it grows in time with you.
Bea Te
What makes the perfect home?
I think when I moved to my space I like it when a home grows with you. I don’t like coming into a home when it’s fully furnished. I like fixing things here and there and it grows in time with you. I feel like a home is never really finished. You always want to improve it, add things, minimize things. I think the perfect home is more of a space where you can relax. Especially in a city like Manila with so many things happening and with my job, going out to events and all that. I just like coming home to a space where I can just relax and just unwind. And welcome friends also.
What are your favorite parts of your space?
My favorite part is definitely my living room because of our view. I don’t have a television in my living room cause it really feels like the window and the view is just the focal point of the whole space, especially during sunsets. It’s the best.
And, of course, my bedroom, because it’s what I really look forward to after going out.
Mano Gonzales, artist and stylist Jan Pineda, film studio creative manager
Mano and Jan’s apartment was previously painted a drab brown. “We used to joke it looked like a mocha cake,” the artist says pointing to the apartment’s unique geometric crown molding. The pair has since painted it white, making vivid colors pop up against the parquet floors in one area and white marble in another: an Yves Klein blue couch in the living room and a cinema red carpet red rug in the bedroom.
The penthouse was a far cry from their previous tiny one-bedroom apartment in BGC, a rarity in the Metro Manila real estate market. So when the opportunity came, they jumped on it—despite having to hop and skip one more floor from the last elevator-serviced level. “We had to carry everything ourselves one extra floor,” Mano says. “Get movers, guys,” Jan adds.
How important was it for you to have your own space in relation to your lifestyle and your work?
Jan: Well, I guess for me, we moved to work from home. So it’s important to have that space where I can do my work but also share it with friends. Mano: Basically to also have a bigger space to do our work and to thrive personally so we can create a space that’s comfortable, that’s also inspiring, and have enough space to do personal projects in. And like Jan said, to have friends over. Because we have a lot of friends who live in the building, there’s a sense of community. We moved here during the lockdown, so that was a time when we can’t go out, can’t see people, because this is basically like a bubble for us. Para hindi namin masyado mafeel ‘yung lockdown vibes kasi we always hang out together.
What’s the best thing about living in Poblacion?
Jan: First, people didn’t really want to go to BGC to visit us. Here parang it’s mas central, it’s easier to go to. Mano: Yeah, things are happening everywhere, it’s so easy to meet people and see our friends. During the lockdown, Poblacion was so quiet, walang ganap, because all the places were closed. But parang ‘di rin naman namin siya masyado na-feel because all of our friends are here (in the building) anyway. Jan: In Poblacion, we hardly go out. All our friends are here na. But, of course, when our friends play, like si Judd [Figuerres] or si Butta B (Bea Te) plays around Poblacion, it’s easier to go.
With dinner parties or having people over, you learn more about them, mas personal.
Jan Pineda
What was the vibe you were going for when putting together this space?
Jan: We built around the space lang. Mano: We’re both very visual people, so we get inspired by the things we surround ourselves with. So I think that’s number one. Number two… is there a number two? [laughs]
I guess things that make things comfortable and homey. Right now malakas ‘yung araw but at night it gets really cozy here, and I think ‘yun ‘yung pinaka-[non-negotiable] namin ni Jan, that it’s cozy. There’s no design brief. Though we like collecting a lot of like, most of our stuff here are old stuff from our own houses, second-hand pieces we find online– Jan: –or stuff from travels Mano: So mga ganun. Basically, just things that inspire us.
What are your favorite parts of your home?
Jan: This studio work area that we also turn into a dining space when we have people over. And my favorite activity here now is hosting, having dinner parties with friends. Nung pandemic, other establishments are closed so we had to make do with the space. I think I discovered I liked that better—hosting—kasi mas intimate. Before, parang I’d hang out with friends sa bars or clubs, pero alam mo ‘yon, ang daming nangyayari. With dinner parties or having people over, you learn more about them, mas personal. Also, we work here din.
Mano: It’s the most active place. It changes a lot. Jan: Yeah. Working on different projects, I also bring my team here sometimes. So ‘yun, here ‘yung pinakamaraming interactions.
Mano: Ako naman, before we even moved here we would visit the building because we had friends who lived in this building na before. ‘Yung pinaka-crush ko talaga ‘yung view nung mga units here. Basically, you have an unobstructed view of—What is this district? CBD. This view also kind of informs how we design the space, or how we set up things.
A lot of the pieces we get here are kind of like inspired by what you see outside. ‘Yun talaga yung favorite ko about here. The view. It’s so hard to look for a view like this in Makati. And because our surroundings—Poblacion—are so active, parang naging project namin ni Jan ‘yung to make a cozy space for us. I think that’s why we never really go out anymore, we just hang out here.
PROFILE
Meet Lokalpedia, the food heritage advocate documenting overlooked endemic Filipino ingredients
John Sherwin Felix AKA Lokalpedia’s photo collection documents artisanal salts and edible flowers
Words by CATHERINE ORDA Photos by SAMANTHA ONG
What’s in a list? Pared down to its core, the apparently objective methods of cataloging are often driven by the impulse to preserve. In the months since he started Lokalpedia, a visual archive of endemic and endangered Filipino ingredients, the self-taught cook and food heritage advocate John Sherwin Felix has maintained a list of hundreds of these food items that would soon find their way in feeds as posts whose subjects did all the talking.
Blueberry-hued date-shaped fruits, dinosaur egg-like structures hugged by cracked clay pots, thorned, bright green husks that reveal something like an almond when pried open—these photos evoke a kind of nostalgia I imagine is unique to Filipinos, something akin to regret over wasted potential.
Or seeing promise in the vaguely familiar.
He doesn’t know it, but Felix speaks mostly in that register, and the stories he tells are hopeful, but his point is always to do something about that promise and make permanent the perishable. They’re all calls to preservation, clear and simple. The visual archive started out partly as a sort of companion to The Banana Leaf Kitchen, Felix’s cooking account, which highlights both classic and lesser-known dishes of Philippine cuisine.
We meet Felix on a sunny day, in a dimly lit kitchen where carefully curated ingredients line the dining table. Without pause, he lifts each one for us to better see and smell, the light sheen and pungency of smoked fish and the brittle crumb and faint sweetness of native tapioca brought to life by his excited commentary. The careful curation (and narration) is not even half the job: Felix’s one-man team takes care of everything, from research and curation to the acquisition of ingredients, from writing and fact-checking to photographing.
The list Felix tells me about is a product of constant research and categorization. Reading books and spending hours on the internet, talking to fisherfolk and wet market vendors, after which the listed items are grouped according to their specific category. “There’s edible fungi, aquatic ingredients, native fruits, cultivars. And then I list down the localities, the seasonality.” But how exactly does he get a hold of these ingredients? “Either online or I go to wherever they’re located. There are ingredients kasi that need to be verified. For example, tawilis. Hindi ka puwede pumunta lang sa market and say na ‘o this is tawilis, the only freshwater sardine in the world.’ For that, I went to Taal Lake.”
After acquiring the ingredients, he photographs them and then composes a caption, which, after reading enough of them a careful reader might appreciate their unusual succinctness—there’s the scientific name (if the ingredient is a species), how it tastes, when and where the ingredient can be found, and how it can be used. No more, no less.
Blueberry-hued date-shaped fruits, dinosaur egg-like structures hugged by cracked clay pots, thorned, bright green husks that reveal something like an almond when pried open—these photos evoke a kind of nostalgia I imagine is unique to Filipinos, something akin to regret over wasted potential.
Or seeing promise in the vaguely familiar.
He doesn’t know it, but Felix speaks mostly in that register, and the stories he tells are hopeful, but his point is always to do something about that promise and make permanent the perishable. They’re all calls to preservation, clear and simple. We meet Felix on a sunny day, in a dimly lit kitchen where carefully curated ingredients line the dining table. Without pause, he lifts each one for us to better see and smell, the light sheen and pungency of smoked fish and the brittle crumb and faint sweetness of native tapioca brought to life by his excited commentary. The careful curation (and narration) is not even half the job: Felix’s one-man team takes care of everything, from research and curation to the acquisition of ingredients, from writing and fact-checking to photographing.
The visual archive started out partly as a sort of companion to The Banana Leaf Kitchen, Felix’s cooking account, which highlights both classic and lesser-known dishes of Philippine cuisine.
The list Felix tells me about is a product of constant research and categorization. Reading books and spending hours on the internet, talking to fisherfolk and wet market vendors, after which the listed items are grouped according to their specific category. “There’s edible fungi, aquatic ingredients, native fruits, cultivars. And then I list down the localities, the seasonality.” But how exactly does he get a hold of these ingredients? “Either online or I go to wherever they’re located. There are ingredients kasi that need to be verified. For example, tawilis. Hindi ka puwede pumunta lang sa market and say na ‘o this is tawilis, the only freshwater sardine in the world.’ For that, I went to Taal Lake.”
“I came from a background na everyone knew how to cook really well, which made me realize na kailangan marunong din ako. From there I started researching about regional cuisine. I wanted [to use] unique ingredients, and for sure meron tayo”
After acquiring the ingredients, he photographs them and then composes a caption, which, after reading enough of them a careful reader might appreciate their unusual succinctness—there’s the scientific name (if the ingredient is a species), how it tastes, when and where the ingredient can be found, and how it can be used. No more, no less.
A welcome reference
Lokalpedia began as a hobby, an extension of a newfound interest in cooking that was characteristic of Felix. “I came from a background na everyone knew how to cook really well, which made me realize na kailangan marunong din ako. From there I started researching about regional cuisine. I wanted [to use] unique ingredients, and for sure meron tayo. Dun ko nadiscover na may cinnamon pala tayo, meron tayong indigenous salt.” An online encounter with a Facebook user claiming that Philippine cuisine had no interesting ingredients and lacked unique spices would solidify Felix’s resolve to try to unearth the lost gems of regional cooking—those obscured by a food culture that has historically favored the capital region, or those that are soon to be lost due to exploitative activities.
Clockwise, from left: Indigenous salts asin tibuok, tultul, asin sa buy-o; with gamet (dried seaweed), and bakas (smoked yellow fin tuna)
Clockwise, from left: Indigenous salts asin tibuok, tultul, asin sa buy-o; with gamet (dried seaweed), and bakas (smoked yellow fin tuna)
In his hometown of San Jose, Occidental Mindoro, Felix would find the kinds of ingredients that would easily disprove the dismissive notions that color how we see our food and by extension, how we cook.
“In my hometown, may mga edible weeds and fruits sa mga kalsada, sa tabi-tabi. You have to explore, kasi hindi mo talaga sila makikita. ‘Yung mga unang ingredients na nakita ko, kalumpit, sabidukong, tsaka bagbagkong. ‘Yung sabidukong at bagbagkong, mga edible flowers na puwede ihalo sa vegetable dishes, puwede din gawing torta. ‘Yung kalumpit [naman], it’s a very high tree na ‘yung fruit pwedeng gawing jam or gamitin sa pastries. Hinahalo ko din minsan sa beverages. Sa Batangas, there’s someone na gumagawa ng kalumpit cheesecake. Imagine, meron pala tayong fruit na puwedeng mag-compete sa blueberry,” Felix says, adding that besides talking to local market vendors and cooks, it also soon became important for him to talk to fellow food heritage advocates who are driven by the same desire to preserve these ingredients through documentation and maybe more critically, through constant use. On his list of inspirations are Toyo Eatery, the photographer Joel Sartore, and the writer Edgie Polistico.
“...to unearth the lost gems of regional cooking—those obscured by a food culture that has historically favored the capital region, or those that are soon to be lost due to exploitative activities.”
The visual archive started out partly as a sort of companion to The Banana Leaf Kitchen, Felix’s cooking account, which highlights both classic and lesser-known dishes of Philippine cuisine. Lokalpedia became a place where Felix could explain some of the ingredients he used in his cooking account, but soon enough it became the many things that it is today: a repository of rare food items, a testament against the reductive ways we tend to think about our cuisine, a welcome reference for home cooks, professional chefs, and even some scientists.
To position yourself this way in a public space whether consciously or otherwise is a pressure that sometimes gets to Felix, yet it’s clear to him that the lack of readily accessible information about these rare ingredients will only feed the existing communication gap between mainstream food media and the average Filipino. “That guy who said na wala tayo masyadong ingredients unlike other countries, he represents maybe thousands of Filipinos who have been [made to believe] that our country is not blessed with natural resources. I don’t want to say that Filipinos are ignorant…may communication gap lang talaga. ‘Yun ‘yung gusto kong punan through Lokalpedia.”
Ingredients as history lessons
For his part, Felix has learned some valuable lessons about regional ingredients that are also obscure objects representative of a part of our history that we rarely talk about. On a trip to Don Salvador Benedicto in Negros Occidental, he learned that the Philippines has over 20 cinnamon species, many of them endemic and have been used in the country as early as the pre-Spanish period.
It’s a spice that we have always believed to be characteristically foreign—the way that we consider apples to be foreign and therefore an import in every sense of the word and therefore superior to our own produce. With Felix’s discovery of Philippine cinnamon was a story many of us probably last heard in high school history classes: “There are tribes like the Manobo na ginagamit siya dati pa, but our colonizers collected thousands of kilos of cinnamon from the Philippines then pinadala sa hari ng Spain.”
“...thousands of Filipinos... have been [made to believe] that our country is not blessed with natural resources…may communication gap lang talaga. ‘Yun ‘yung gusto kong punan through Lokalpedia.”
“...thousands of Filipinos... have been [made to believe] that our country is not blessed with natural resources…may communication gap lang talaga. ‘Yun ‘yung gusto kong punan through Lokalpedia.”
Another pre-colonial ingredient, asin tibuok, provides glimpses of nearly extinct culinary traditions and the lives of the people who practiced them. This artisanal salt from Alburquerque, Bohol, described by Felix as having “a sharp, salty flavor with mild smoky undertones,” was one of the first posts on Lokalpedia, and which gained a lot of traction and eventually gave the food heritage advocate a better idea of the kind of project the account was shaping up to be.
Clockwise, from top left: Sweeteners pakaskas, muscovado, balikutsa, panutsa de bao
The now-viral Facebook post details the labor-intensive process behind the making of this salt, which starts with soaking coconut husks in seawater for months after which they are dried and burned into ashes. Thanks to Lokalpedia and a few other food writers and bloggers and food heritage advocacy groups who have posted about it, the time-consuming, tedious practice has rightfully gained as much attention as the finished product itself, which, as Felix is happy to share, has given the industry the boost it needed to stay afloat. “‘Yun ‘yung importance ng [Lokalpedia]. Nung may mga taong nalaman na may asin tibuok pala, nabuhay ulit ‘yung industry. May mga friends ako sa Bohol na asinderos na tumaas daw ‘yung sales nila. Maraming asinderos din na bumalik sa pag-aasin.”
How much value do we assign to our own food?
The artisanal salt remains a special entry in Felix’s slowly expanding catalog, and not because of the number of people it has reached (though of course, that is something to aspire to if the goal is to educate), but because of how telling it is of the amount of legwork it takes to produce a single post, which more importantly also seems to say a lot about the absence of these ingredients in our cooking. “Ang hirap niyang [asin tibuok] hanapin. So naghanap lang talaga ako ng contacts sa social media, and then I saw someone na niece ng asindero. Bumili ako ng ilang piraso—ang mura pa niya nun. But I think dapat mas mahal siya, sa hirap ba naman ng process. Sobrang undervalued niya.”
In October, Lokalpedia exhibited a selection of Philippine ingredients at Escolta.
Visitors were able to see, taste, touch, and smell each item. Photos from Lokalpedia’s Instagram
In October, Lokalpedia exhibited a selection of Philippine ingredients
at Escolta.
Visitors were able to see, taste, touch, and smell each item. Photos from Lokalpedia’s Instagram
While the attention that Felix’s work has received hardly constitutes a hefty enough consensus about the value that we assign to our local ingredients, one of Lokalpedia’s more significant wins besides unearthing the lost is proving our simultaneous ignorance over and genuine interest in our own food, the only thing separating the two being the admittedly difficult (and expensive) act of seeking these ingredients out and everything else that is bound to happen when faced with the vaguely familiar. For the young advocate: catalog, photograph, talk about them with everyone who would listen, and then hope they would do the same. Or even just cook with them. In basket, from L-R: Lubi-lubi, sakurab, lasona, libas. On surface, from L-R: kesong puti, batwan, himbabao/alukon, siling labuyo, landang, kalingag (local cinnamon)
In basket, from L-R: Lubi-lubi, sakurab, lasona, libas. On surface, from L-R: kesong puti, batwan, himbabao/alukon, siling labuyo, landang, kalingag (local cinnamon)
Felix has ambitious plans for Lokalpedia: “I’m trying to document hundreds of ingredients. There’s a lot to explore—I plan to go to Southern Palawan next and document their fruits. I want Lokalpedia to be the biggest collection of our food heritage photos. Of course, I also hope to produce a book someday.”
Whatever happens, there’s good that’s been done: Felix’s growing photo collection can mean at least one or two home cooks using an ingredient they’ve never used before, a retired salt maker returning to their craft, more curious, conscientious eaters, an amateur home cook turning to advocacy. ●
From L-R: Katmon, tagpo, tabon-tabon, lasona & pariya, kamansi, bunga ng nipa
Photography by Samantha Ong
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang
Produced by Pauline Miranda
Special thanks to Sassa Gurl
Fed Pua is a big ball of energy in chunky boots and an oversized sweater—a collectible Stockholm 1956 Olympics sweater to be exact. On eBay, it is currently listed at $299.99. (You really don’t want to know how much that is in Philippine pesos. Not in this economy.) But Fed is not too precious about it, the sweater that is, or any of his prized hauls on display at his vintage shop It’s Vintage’s new location at Casmer Bldg. in Salcedo St., Makati.
Photos courtesy ofIt’s Vintage
As he welcomes me together with his best friend slash fellow shopkeeper Miguel Enriquez, horchata in one hand, Fed motions for me to sit on a neat pile of folded souvenir clothes, nostalgic T-shirts, and acid wash denim jackets from his first love Factory Boy. Yes, you can sit on it. Heck, you can even take them if you want, he jokes (obviously).
The new shop is just a few blocks away from its old location, which closed earlier this year. It was It’s Vintage’s home for two years. The store prides itself on stocking hard-to-find and one-of-a-kind pieces: Hawaiian shirts, bootleg T-shirts, band merch, cheeky statement tees, souvenir jackets, and more.
Before It’s Vintage, Fed was the creative director of Factory Boy, which channeled the same retro feel, except the pieces are new and not—for lack of a better word—vintage. For a while, to own Factory Boy pieces meant being in touch with and attuned to local youth culture. But Fed too soon grew out of that.
I launched Factory Boy when I was still in uni and I think that I have grown so much as a person and a creative since then.
In the wake of Factory came his new brainchild Atomic, a line of reworked pieces from the Y2K era. Think denim corsets, shoulder bags; halter tops made out of Harley-Davidson T-shirts. It’s nostalgic, but Fed infused it with something more specific: Pinoy pop culture. Its newer pieces include a chore jacket embroidered with Jollibee mascots.
Atomic pieces join the assortment of clothes, accessories, jewelry, and art pieces (sadly not for sale) that are in-store at It’s Vintage. Weeks after trying on cute (some pieces literally seem like they are meant for toddlers) colorful vest sweaters and forcing myself to fit in a kilt a size too small for me, I caught up with Fed to talk shop and everything in between.
Hi Fed! How are you doing? Congrats on the new store location. I hear it used to be a pawnshop. What made you choose this location and did you find any foreclosed jewelry left behind?
Hey king! It’s been really busy since we opened but ultimately just really overwhelmed with the love and support everyone has given us.
Yup, it used to be a pawnshop. I chose the space because I instantly fell in love with the building. I had always been a huge fan of Leandro Locsin’s work and to finally have a chance to set up shop in an unpretentious Brutalist structure was a personal dream.
It’s Vintage is currently housed inside the Casmer Building along Salcedo St.
No jewelry unfortunately but fun fact: our current fitting room is where the vault of the pawnshop used to be!
Tell us about the space. What’s different, what stayed the same? Do vintage hunters get to see you in the store every day?
We gutted the entire space and tried our best to show the history of the building while infusing the narrative of the store. There were these acoustic panels at the top to make the space look more like an office which we removed and saw these incredible curved concrete slabs from the original structure. It felt like discovering a fresco that hadn’t been seen in decades.
Some love it, some hate it, some still don’t get it, but it’s all part of the fun of running an independent store.
We get people from all demographics in the shop, which I love! Vintage connoisseurs, tourists, office workers, balikbayans, celebrities, families, etc. We always strive to be accessible while introducing the concept of a curated vintage store in the city. Some love it, some hate it, some still don’t get it, but it’s all part of the fun of running an independent store.
What can we find in the store? What’s one item you regret putting up for sale and wish you kept for yourself?
It’s difficult to give a specific category since the product range really changes depending on what I am able to source abroad since everything is handpicked. We have the dream closet from bootleg Versace Jeans from the 2000s, designer knit vests from the ’80s, or anime promotional tees from the ’90s.
Earlier you launched a new brand, Atomic World, which is also being stocked at your new location. Can you tell us more about it and how is it different from your previous brand Factory and your forever baby It’s Vintage?
I launched Factory Boy when I was still in uni and I think that I have grown so much as a person and a creative since then. Atomic, I’d like to think, is a more polished and self-realized brand.
Atomic also definitely takes cues from all the vintage clothing I source for It’s Vintage while subversing it to something more personal and more Manila cool I like to say. It’s also distinctly different from my other brands because it’s the only one that picks up inspiration from my life in New York City so it has a lot of that rebellious youthful energy infused in it.
We see you have a lot of valuable art prints and pieces as well as collectibles. Can you go over them and what’s the security plan to ensure they are not taken away?
Don’t even try cause we just installed our CCTV camera! *laughs*
What I noticed when I go to vintage shops abroad is the format of just sticking any kind of old poster in the store and calling it a day. I wanted a place that felt more personal to me which is why all the decorations are pieces that I personally owned.
“There’s a German movie poster of the 1968 movie “Flesh” by Andy Warhol, who has probably been my strongest influence in entering the art/fashion world. There’s a French poster of “Bayan Ko” (1984) by Lino Brocka, who I revere as one of the greatest Filipino directors. It’s also a nod [to] the era when the building was made,” Fed tells Nolisoli.ph
There’s a skateboard plastered with anime figurines which was a sort of cathartic art project for myself and an old American flag paying homage to the Americana vintage stores I’d frequent in Shimokitazawa that definitely inspired me to launch my own store.
Even the counter and tables around the store are a nod to Japanese architect Kengo Kuma who I adore. I guess the store is how my brain would look like if you entered it.
How often do you stock up on new stuff and can I see the backroom if I suspect you’re hiding the good stuff out in the back?
I’m always sourcing so there are always new things out every week. It’s really fun because it always feels like Christmas in the store when a new shipment arrives. And it’s all personally handpicked by me so best believe the items are always fire!
Our vision of the store is definitely to be a safe space for our communities (both artists and the LGBTQIA+ community).
You cook, right? You did Comfort Kitchen for us! I love gluten-free cookies during the opening as well as the horchata Miguel whipped up in lieu of coffee (Hi Miguel!). Are there plans to have things other than clothes in the store? Perhaps food?
We’ve been planning to create some intimate events with friends such as independent zine launches and listening parties. Our vision of the store is definitely to be a safe space for our communities (both artists and the LGBTQIA+ community) and there aren’t a lot in the city, unfortunately. We love collaborating with like-minded individuals because, at the end of the day, it’s the people that make our small neighborhood shop special.
It’s Vintage is located at Casmer Building 195 Salcedo St, Makati Open Thursday to Sunday, from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.
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
