“I’m just here to hook up,” Danton* told Czar Kristoff on Grindr, a dating app largely used by the LGBT+ community. “I don’t understand what a workshop is for,” Kristoff’s match added.

Also on Grindr, Zeus Bascon paused, looking for the words to tell his match what the project really was about. Unfortunately, before he could finish, his match blocked him.

Selling a project to the art world in Manila and abroad was one thing, but sharing a community project with a sales clerk with limited opportunities and education was another thing entirely. “Do you feel safe when you go out?” Kristoff asked instead.

Hours later, Danton was still opening up about being a heterosexual-passing man in a hypermasculine space.

Later, it’s Kristoff sharing at Danton’s prompting, and the former talks about frequenting a skate park, having to hide his flamboyance, and “manning up.”

Taking up space

For Kristoff and Bascon, both recipients of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ (CCP) annual 13 Artists Awards, coming to terms with their queerness was, and is, a gradual process.

In a Zoom interview with Nolisoli.ph, the two Laguna-based artists share their mission and what drives them. Bascon also brings up the dilemmas of self-expression in a hypermasculine space. Recently, he attended a hip-hop event in a skate park, but he didn’t hide who he was. He let them know “na may bakla dito.”

Bascon cites a supportive family and tolerating neighbors as the water which lets him flower.

Unfortunately, as Danton’s story shows, many queer Filipinos from less privileged backgrounds are not given the space or the institutional safety to allow this process to bloom. As such, many LGBTQIA+ folks sometimes hold mindsets that hinder their best interests, such as internalized homophobia or a fear-driven dismissal of human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) testing.

This urgency animates Bascon as he shares, “Since we’re queer people here in Laguna, HIV testing is very important. We want to create a public space where HIV testing is seen as normal.” 

First discovered in the 1980s, HIV is a largely sexually transmitted virus that weakens the immune system. Scientists believe it likely originated from colonial prostitution in Africa and later unhygienic syringe use from vaccination campaigns in the region.

You take this specific role in a community as an artist to motivate or initiate movements within the community.

Arist Zeus Bascon

Presently, dated misconceptions persist that HIV is a disease exclusively created by and spread among LGBTQIA+ people. The Human Rights Campaign Foundation reports that HIV is notably present among the LGBTQIA+ community not because of same-sex practices, which many ideologues insist, but because of social stigma forcing many LGBTQIA+ people into unsafe sex work given the lack of employment opportunities.

In the Philippines, the Department of Health warned of the rising positivity rate of HIV results in the period between 2008 and 2017, from one positive case per day to 30 new diagnoses per day. Meanwhile, only 67 percent of people living with HIV in 2016 knew their status. In the same report, the World Health Organization added that a misdiagnosis rate of 10 percent occurs with dated test kits as one possible factor.

A safe sunset

Enter “Sunset Garden,” a project which may just be Kristoff and Bascon’s biggest undertaking yet. Is it a publication? A microsite? An ethnography? Group therapy? A community intervention? 

The duo partnered not just with art institutions but also with medical and civil institutions, and the project heavily credits its rollout to Erroll Austria, a worker from a private HIV foundation attached to the Ospital ng Biñan HIV and AIDS Treatment Hub.

“Sunset Garden” is a continuing collaboration between the two artists that brings LGBTQIA+ individuals together by holding space for conversations and self-expression. It is a combination of individual projects they initiated in previous years, the first iterations of which were launched in early 2022. More iterations are also planned in the future based on feedback from the past and current sub-projects.

Kristoff observed something peculiar about Filipino Grindr versus when he used the app overseas: Some Filipinos used photos of sunsets as their profile pictures instead of face or body photos. He talked to these people and presented his observations in a multimedia artwork titled “Grindr Sunsets.”

A version of this project was presented in Kwago Book Bar during Pride 2019. Building from feedback there, Kristoff presented a different version during the March 2022 run of the CCP’s 13 Artists Awards. 

Bascon, meanwhile, was working on an artist residency in seaside La Union under Emerging Islands. It was also a time in his life involving much inner work. The residency culminated in a series of paintings and postcards of sunsets titled “Cultivating a Garden.”

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“Sunset Garden” presently revolves around “congregations” of queer people and allies literally viewing sunsets at a reclaimed patch of land along Laguna de Bay, which Kristoff discovered during a bike ride. With Austria’s help, they organized a sharing session at the said spot, documented it, and presented snippets of it all while respecting participant privacy.

The duo admits that the first run saw limited success and that they continue to face hurdles. During the said sharing session, only one couple arrived, and they were hesitant at first. But Austria was vocal in his support of the project, which won the couple over. They then began to open up candidly about their experiences as queer folk, including their choice to get tested for HIV.

Upon recalling that, Bascon lights up: “As all this was happening, this is when I realized: This should happen again with more participants.” Psychosocial support and even caretaker support are crucial in living with HIV, similar to the holistic treatment of other chronic illnesses. “Sunset Garden,” if allowed to continue, may just be that, but also with a component of creative expression.

The next session saw the launch of a “Sunset Garden” publication by their sunset spot, containing field notes and snippets of testimonies from the “Grindr sunset profiles” as well as from their first congregation, which was filmed. Amidst local DJ budots remixes, and with their voices altered to protect their privacies, only their silhouettes shown, the participants talk about what the sunset means to them, by the sunset on Laguna de Bay. “How we participate in Grindr affects our everyday life outside of it,” one participant shares. The event was largely attended by writers and artists.

The duo tried distributing the publication at HIV clinics, and Bascon shares that the patients were kind enough to admit to the artists that they didn’t understand the publication’s content. “Many don’t know what the word ‘queer’ means,” Kristoff says of the people he interviewed on Grindr.

[READ: Local queer literature to add to your reading list]

Despite this, the artists were further galvanized into improving the work. Amid differences in language and education, as well as some initial hesitance, the subjects were always, always willing to share, to open up, to let someone hold space for them.

Kristoff and Bascon have each exhibited around the Philippines and abroad. And yet they feel that going home to Laguna and focusing on it is the most challenging and fulfilling project they’ve taken on so far. More iterations are planned, as long as there is a need for them, and the publication is one way supporters can help fund the project.

The Excel site and film (which was shown at the CCP) on which the publication is based is glittery and kitsch and reminiscent of a Multiply page from the early 2000s.

“That’s because I’m a Multiply gal,” quips Kristoff, before expounding that they used this specific visual language as it resonates more with home, with how people here express themselves. He adds, “It’s hard to unlearn things if you won’t go back to your past. Healing is a time-based process. You have to go back in time in order to heal.”

Citizens then artists

The project thus also sheds light on the gap between the language of the art world and the language of the general public.

“Parati nating pinagsisilbihan ang mga collectors tsaka galleries (We always serve art collectors and commercial galleries),” Kristoff observes. Bascon meanwhile rounds it out by admitting that while painting in the gallery circuit pays the bills, he remains aware of “the concerns of the public beyond the art world” and because of this, he and Kristoff are straightforward with galleries in “expressing what we need to be able to work with them.”

Feedback from the “Sunset Garden” congregations informed Bascon on how to be understood by the public instead of just the art-viewing community. “That’s when I realized projects like these aren’t meant to target art institutions and commercial galleries to tackle community issues but to target the local government and individuals with resources,” he expounds.

While sunset viewing with Austria and the couple, Bascon noted that bystanders in the vicinity were within earshot of the group and could pick up on the stories being shared and how they were being expressed.

Something as small as that is a radical act, Bascon further believes, as being a citizen is essentially participating in public life. Being queer in public spaces where heteronormativity is equated with propriety, sometimes in spaces as mundane as one’s commute, is one such example which the painter cites from his experience. “Ito nga ang ibig-sabihin ng occupying spaces. Kahit nag-uusap lang tayo, and other people are present. (This is what it means to ‘occupy space’: Something as seemingly small as conversing while others are present).”

Community mediums

In pre-colonial Philippines, the babaylan or shaman was roughly the equivalent of a priest but also a living library. The babaylan knew not just rituals to ensure a good harvest or which plants healed or poisoned but also the fables and legends representing community values. People visited the babaylan to seek advice, too.

The babaylan worked to embody and anchor the gods, the ideals, in their communities.

Storyteller, community guide, spiritual medium, medicine-person—these were the roles undertaken.

[READ: Assured that they are loved by God]

Babaylan were often women or men who lived as women. They held as much power as the military and political leader of a barangay, the datu, who was often a man but could be a woman. When the Spaniards arrived, babaylan were demonized in order to pave a new hierarchy. The datu meanwhile, became the overseers of Spanish authority.

Today there are still subconscious imprints of our communal past. It could be said that a manifestation of this is in the participants allowing themselves to be vulnerable with a group of strangers during the sunset viewings. It’s precisely this that grounds the entire project: that primal need to commune in spaces created by those who’ve done thorough soul-searching.

But Kristoff and Bascon aren’t saviors, they are mediums helping others to embark on their own journeys, “the hero’s journey,” as Bascon puts it, alluding to the meaning of sun signs in astrology. It’s not for the galleries, it’s for the subjects, it’s for the community.  

He ponders further, realizing that “there’s even the artist-as-performance. You take this specific role in a community as an artist to motivate or initiate movements within the community.”

There’s a spirit that the Sunset Garden project is trying to anchor, and it’s currently taking many physical forms with no definite shape yet. But it’s there. Perhaps Bascon, Kristoff, Austria, and their collaborators, in their own ways, answer the call of the Divine Feminine, a call which closeted clerks or hip-hop lads in skate parks are trying to heed, in their own way, in their own time.

When the sun sets, it’s time for the stars to shine.

*Name has been changed 

You can support the project by purchasing the Sunset Garden publication on Instagram and Facebook. Follow Czar Kristoff and Zeus Bascon to keep posted on future sunset sessions.

One Sunday in Escolta’s creative space Hub: Make Lab, we met full-time professional photographer Jovel Lorenzo of Box Camera Ph. He’s been in the photography business for 20 years now, initially as a photographer for magazines using a 35mm film single-lens reflex (SLR) Nikon FM2 and a medium format cam. 

“I eventually switched to digital,” he told Nolisoli.ph over email, “but I’ve always tried to go back to analog photography in my professional career.”

And go back he did. That weekend, he brought something different. Something that dates back decades.

[READ: Why analog is here to stay]

Instead of snapping photos with a sleek compact camera, he asks his subjects to pose before a wooden contraption propped up by a tripod. The device was a street box camera he fashioned from parts scoured from the internet and built himself over the course of the quarantine in 2020.

A street box camera, minutera camera, lambe-lambe, or an Afghan box was first used by traveling photographers in Latin America who would mount makeshift studios in locations without one. Soon, it was popularized in tourist spots in Europe because it was able to develop black-and-white pictures within minutes as it is both a camera and a darkroom.

More than just the novelty of analog photography, Lorenzo’s photos capture something else: a rawness amplified by the black-and-white format, something even a smartphone with advanced lenses can’t recreate. His photographs, 5”x7” print, seem like they were taken a century ago, projecting a mysterious aura that’s out of these contemporary times.

“The look of the photograph is very different,” he said. “It has more texture, more depth, so you feel like you’re looking at something soulful.”

The process in itself is just as fascinating. While waiting for the final photo to develop, he shows you a glimpse of what it would look like by viewing the negative through a phone camera whose display colors have been inverted. 

There was a point in my life when I got bored doing photography using my digital camera, it became just that—a job.

Initially, Lorenzo and his street box camera used to only accommodate private sittings at his wife’s shop in Pasig and then at Photokitchen Studio in Kamuning, Quezon City. A two-hour session for one person or a couple starts at P4,500, inclusive of the black-and-white print.

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It wasn’t until last month that his craft was made more accessible to the greater public through a series of pop-ups. The first one was at a photographers’ film meetup in Quezon City, then at a Father’s Day event at a mall in Makati, and more recently at HUB: Make Lab’s Pista ng Pamana.

In this interview, we talk to Lorenzo about the novelty of analog, his passion for photography, and how to make subjects comfortable in front of the camera.

When did you start using a street box camera? 

I started playing with the idea of creating a street box camera in 2020 during the pandemic after watching several YouTube videos about it. I was able to build one and it took more than a month (from design to build). By November 2020, I had a fully functioning camera. 

How does a street box camera work?

A street box camera operates as both a camera and a darkroom in one. What’s unique about it is that it doesn’t use film and instead, uses chemical-based photo paper to produce both negatives and positives.

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Ideally, a street box camera develops pictures on the spot and I do that during special private sessions. I basically take another photo of the produced negative via a special arm which I also created. 

But for sitter sessions, where I take several portraits, I would develop the photographs via my dark room. This helps me save on photo paper since I have fewer mistakes and I end up with pictures with outcomes I can control better.

How does a portrait session usually go?

[At popups] a sitter session takes about 15 minutes (P1,500). Usually, I ask if they have a pose in mind and we can start from that. I also ask what their interests are and we sometimes get an idea from there. Subjects hold their pose for several seconds as I prepare the camera. They hold about 1-2 seconds for me but on instances where light is dim, they stay still longer. The longest was 18 seconds but that was a rare case.

Can you recall your most memorable subject/shoot? 

All my shoots are memorable because the process of doing it is really complex. But if I really have to choose it would be those I took as part of my art sessions. The first [was] a 14-day portrait I started during the early months of the box camera. 

The series was called the “Island Quarantine Series” where I tried to capture island life and personalities for each day of my two-week mandatory quarantine when I visited my island hometown of Tingloy in Batangas. 

I also have three images that captured typical provincial life using another box camera I created. This one produced 11”x11” images and I had to create a separate box as a dark room. I had to lug both anywhere I [went] but it was worth it when I got to produce the three images.

Why do you think people are drawn to analog stuff lately? 

The challenge and novelty of doing analog are beautiful and something that people appreciate. The excitement of not knowing what’s going to come out, of doing your best because you only have a few frames to work on is enticing. During this pandemic, in particular, people had a lot of time on their hands, so they had the chance to go back to something that took time to produce.

What’s the best part of what you do?

The best part for me is going back to what I really love doing. There was a point in my life when I got bored doing photography using my digital camera, it became just that—a job. When I got to do photography with the box, I was so happy that I got to apply what I knew before. Suddenly it was exciting again. It [means] that I won’t stop learning and it’s such a beautiful and unique medium that I am eager to share with younger photographers. 

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PROFILE Relearning one’s sense of place with filmmaker Shireen Seno The filmmaker shares her path to self-discovery through learning about the in-betweens of being Filipino Words by DENISE ALCANTARA      Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL Different birds are calling, some in a high pitch and some in a rounder tone. The wind is bellowing. Grass crackles at every step. And people murmur in the background. I’m peering through one of the lenses of Shireen Seno’s binoculars as she searches for different migratory birds and ducks in marshes and grasslands in and out of the Philippines. She finds birds flying in flocks or perching on branches solo.
“A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” (Arcade 4walls edition) | 2020, 18 min, color, HD | December 15, 2020 to January 14, 2021
Asia Plaza Media Wall, Asia Culture Center, Gwangju, South Korea Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, went to university in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles with her father before finding home in Manila. Her work entitled “A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” is part of the work-in-progress feature film, “The Wild Duck,” an exploration of her father’s migration to the United States in the early 2000s. Her life journey is akin to the migratory birds she films. For most of the filmmaker’s life, she has gone searching for the meaning of home.

An international student all her school days, Seno struggled with belonging. Being neither here nor there, she started asking fundamental questions about identity, place, and purpose. On her return to the Philippines, she started finding the pieces through film, art, and community. In 2018, she was selected as one of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ Thirteen Artists awardees, a recognition given to groundbreaking visual artists. Three years later, Seno was tasked to curate the exhibit for the same prestigious award.

This interview was edited for clarity and brevity. Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, went to university in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles with her father before finding home in Manila. Her work entitled “A child dies, a child plays, a woman is born, a woman dies, a bird arrives, a bird flies off” is part of the work-in-progress feature film, “The Wild Duck,” an exploration of her father’s migration to the United States in the early 2000s. Her life journey is akin to the migratory birds she films. For most of the filmmaker’s life, she has gone searching for the meaning of home.

An international student all her school days, Seno struggled with belonging. Being neither here nor there, she started asking fundamental questions about identity, place, and purpose. On her return to the Philippines, she started finding the pieces through film, art, and community. In 2018, she was selected as one of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ Thirteen Artists awardees, a recognition given to groundbreaking visual artists. Three years later, Seno was tasked to curate the exhibit for the same prestigious award.

This interview was edited for clarity and brevity. Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, educated in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles before finding home in Manila. When was the turning point of feeling that you needed to connect to your Filipino identity?
When I was in Toronto, I realized that I didn’t know what I was doing. Why here? Why am I trying so hard to stay here? Then, I realized that I had to go back. I had this empty feeling growing up. [There was an] abyss, [an] emptiness inside.

I was alone in Canada for a good six years. I needed to be alone. I needed to go away. I needed to realize what was missing, what I wanted to figure out.

I wanted to become an architect [so] I took up Bachelor of Arts in architectural studies. In one summer session, I took up a film class. I really loved it but I was still trying to do this architecture degree. I ended up taking these two courses that changed my outlook. I also took a class named Japanese cinemas. It was basically looking at the parallel development of cinema and capitalism in Japan.

So, you were never exposed to Japanese cinema in Japan?
Yes. It was an amazing class because it was really looking at these films and the form of the films, not just what’s it about but how it’s made. That time was my awakening to politics and how I connected to the bigger picture. Growing up, I didn’t understand all these things happening in Japan. It really awakened me to have a stance on things.

So, I took another class called architecture media and communications. It was looking at architecture but from the point of view of different kinds of media. It was looking at architecture but through things other than buildings, other than the environment. Both of these classes had this effect on me so I decided to do a double major.

Seno was born and raised in Tokyo, educated in Toronto, and spent some time in Los Angeles before finding home in Manila. When was the turning point of feeling that you needed to connect to your Filipino identity?
When I was in Toronto, I realized that I didn’t know what I was doing. Why here? Why am I trying so hard to stay here? Then, I realized that I had to go back. I had this empty feeling growing up. [There was an] abyss, [an] emptiness inside.

I was alone in Canada for a good six years. I needed to be alone. I needed to go away. I needed to realize what was missing, what I wanted to figure out.

I wanted to become an architect [so] I took up Bachelor of Arts in architectural studies. In one summer session, I took up a film class. I really loved it but I was still trying to do this architecture degree. I ended up taking these two courses that changed my outlook. I also took a class named Japanese cinemas. It was basically looking at the parallel development of cinema and capitalism in Japan.

So, you were never exposed to Japanese cinema in Japan?
Yes. It was an amazing class because it was really looking at these films and the form of the films, not just what’s it about but how it’s made. That time was my awakening to politics and how I connected to the bigger picture. Growing up, I didn’t understand all these things happening in Japan. It really awakened me to have a stance on things.

So, I took another class called architecture media and communications. It was looking at architecture but from the point of view of different kinds of media. It was looking at architecture but through things other than buildings, other than the environment. Both of these classes had this effect on me so I decided to do a double major. “I was hearing about this independent film scene and I felt like how I would love to go and watch these films, first of all, but also go back [to Manila] to get a sense of what it was like making films.” When I was in film studies, I spent a lot of time in public libraries and I found one branch that had a VHS copy of Kidlat Tahimik’s “Perfumed Nightmare.” It blew my mind. Then shortly after, there were some films that were coming to the Toronto International Film Festival. There’s Lav Diaz, Raya Martin, Khavn De La Cruz, and John Torres. I was hearing about this independent film scene and I felt like how I would love to go and watch these films, first of all, but also go back [to Manila] to get a sense of what it was like making films.

I went to a Philippine Independent Filmmakers Cooperative meeting in Galleria. I made my own handwritten business card and I didn’t know anyone. I just showed up. I met Kidlat Tahimik, Raya, and John. I made friends with them. I also met Alexis Tioseco, a young film critic. He was so welcoming and such a breath of fresh air coming from Japan where there are certain ways of doing things when you meet someone. Through him, I watched a lot of experimental films. He connected me to Lav and ended up tagging along in a shoot of “Melancholia.”
“To Pick A Flower,” Seno’s latest project, was a commissioned work for an exhibition in Taiwan. “It was an exhibition focusing on early photography in Taiwan but I was commissioned to do artistic research as a way to destabilize the focus on Taiwan and show how the histories of the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries are intertwined.” “To Pick A Flower,” Seno’s latest project, was a commissioned work for an exhibition in Taiwan. “It was an exhibition focusing on early photography in Taiwan but I was commissioned to do artistic research as a way to destabilize the focus on Taiwan and show how the histories of the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries are intertwined.” Would you say that you first felt that sense of community in the Philippines?
Yeah. I mean aside from growing up in a very small, tight-knit community growing up, this was different. You don’t choose to grow up in your high school; you were just put there. It’s more of something like you find your own place in the world. I felt like I found a place where I felt comfortable and excited. I belonged in a way.
“[Filmmaking is] kind of like therapy to understand all these things that make you who you are.” So, you went back to Manila and tried to learn about history and the different cultural contexts that have influenced the Filipino identity. Was this your primary reason?
I don’t like to put broad words like the “Filipino identity.” I’m more interested in the details, really. Not putting any labels on things. I guess I make films as a way to process things that I don’t understand or some experience that I’d like to understand better. It’s kind of like therapy to understand all these things that make you who you are.

Doing that feels like a very heavy or complicated process to do by yourself. Do you have a support system that helps you build these films?
I definitely have a co-conspirator in John [Torres], my husband and partner from the beginning. He was someone I looked up to. Seeing his films before I started making [them], he always encouraged me to do my own. In the beginning, I would help him (aside from Lav). He was in the middle of something when I came around but he was always pushing me. I saw his process or way of working—writing some bits and pieces, then getting more support—and then that will enable him to continue to do that, to write, to shoot more, to keep at it.
Seno’s films, which center on memory, history, and image-making, have been screened both locally and abroad, from Museum of Contemporary Art and Design Manila to Toronto International Film Festival. “We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” “We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” In a world where millions put out content, did you ever feel any pressure to create more and faster?
I’ll burn out if I keep up with the pace of these things. I go by my own pace. I’m just getting by. Both of us are independent filmmakers and artists so we live off grants. We’re quite fortunate to find a way to stay afloat in the worlds of film and also art. Being on the fringes of both has been a good thing for us.

From being an artist, how did you become a curator? Was it a natural progression for you?
It hasn’t been so linear. In the beginning, I wanted to show works. I wasn’t thinking of making my own. My original impulse was to show the works of others. I go back and forth between curating and organizing.

What is your curation process like?
I tend to stick quite open throughout the process. I like the unpredictability. Coming in without having any preconceived ideas is really challenging but is also refreshing. It’s a good kind of adrenaline that you get when trying to figure out what fits… like a puzzle.
“We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring.” The 2021 Thirteen Artists Awards exhibition curated by Seno features 13 mid-career Filipino artists and their works. It will run until June 5 at the CCP Bulwagang Juan Luna, Pasilyo Juan Luna, and Pasilyo Guillermo Tolentino. Video courtesy of CCP Visual Arts and Museum How was the experience like curating for last year’s CCP 13 Artists Award?
I was quite surprised because I just won from the last batch but I was very humbled to be asked. I felt kind of overwhelmed because at that time, [in June 2021], I had just given birth to our second child in April. I was still trying to recover from giving birth and just trying to get by as a parent of now two kids. So, I was like, “How was I going to do this? How am I going to put together this show during a pandemic?”

It was overwhelming but maybe it was worth it because at least I made new friends. They’re all artists that I admired and there are some artists that I was unfamiliar with that I wanted to see. I had been out of the loop since 2018 when I had my first kid. So I thought it was a way to catch up on what was going on, make new friends, and challenge myself to put on an exhibition.

I really enjoy working with space. I guess it brings together my unfulfilled ambition in architecture before. “I’m still skimming the surface of myself, my memories, my relationships to others.” How did you navigate the film and art industries as a woman?
I’m always uncomfortable with these kinds of questions “as a woman.” But it’s real—the struggle is real. But for me, I’ve been lucky to have the support of my partner. We always make works together. When I direct, he’s always produced my work.

You were also recently a mother. Did it also influence your art or has it influenced your art already?
I think so. It definitely influenced my sense of time. I have to be on my toes all the time. As a parent, you have to be ready for anything. It made me realize that I don’t have all the time in the world. I’ve always struggled with procrastination.

We’ve recently thought about how to balance family and to continue to make. We think the best way is to incorporate it to our work, this idea of family, to have them be part of it. It’s really the only way to keep making.

Being a parent really turned my life around. I feel like I have no time—except when they’re finally asleep—for myself. And that’s a struggle but to have that limitation is a good thing I think. To make me create things in this strange semi-asleep state you know, the wee hours of the morning. It’s that kind of twilight time. In between being awake and asleep but that’s very productive because I feel like the subliminal starts to mix with reality.
A mother of two, the filmmaker and artist resides in Quezon City, where she is happy to be living adjacent to green public spaces.

Her second feature, “Nervous Translation”, a film set in the post-People Power Revolution years through the eyes of an eight-year-old, will be on show at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London this April. Two of the themes I observed in your work are movement and space. So, quite a cheesy question, but what keeps you moving forward?
There are still so many things to work out. We’re never finished being. We never totally figure out who we are. And if you figure that out, it’s boring. We’re always in a process of becoming. We’re never fully formed. So, I think that definitely drives my practice.

I’m still skimming the surface of myself, my memories, my relationships to others. I’m feeling my way through. I think the idea of scale is something that has found its way into my work—to bounce between the details and then serve the bigger picture. My making of works is just a way to understand what we’ve been through and what I am going through.

Anything else in the works this year?
I have a residency in Berlin this year. I’ll focus on writing or trying to write the script of “The Wild Duck.” There’s never really a total script. It’s really just a guide. We’re hopefully trying to keep that tension between the staged and unstaged. To keep that sense of being alive and not having everything planned. ●
Part III of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month Special For Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking. Written by Denise Alcantara
Cover photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang

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PROFILE Jessica Dorizac’s many-layered paper pieces and the patterns they won’t give away “My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape,” the artist says of her geometric works that resist pattern-finding Interview by by SEPTEMBER GRACE MAHINO    Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL Interview by by SEPTEMBER GRACE MAHINO    

Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL Artist Jessica Dorizac was preparing for her return to Brisbane, Australia when we caught up with her for this feature. She hasn’t been home in four years. As she packs for another country, one would hardly suspect the move is happening. For one, she has two ongoing shows: a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez, and a solo show at the cafe/exhibition space in Escolta called The Den.
Much like her husband and artist in-laws, Dorizac’s work explores the possibilities of material art, particularly wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, along with construction paper, cardboard, and corrugated board. In both spaces, Dorizac’s works command attention through a cacophony of colors, shapes, and textures; collages, if you may call them, that defy the basic human instinct to seek patterns in the unfamiliar.

Assemblage is not foreign to the artist, who, prior to returning to Australia to finish her degree in fine arts, resided in Los Baños, Laguna. There at the Fruit Juice Factory, with her husband, artist Miguel Aquilizan, her artist in-laws Isabel and Alfredo Aquilizan, and eight dogs, she toyed with the possibilities of materials in art. It is, after all, a family signature, from Isabel and Alfredo’s wings of sickles to Miguel’s wood and metal sculptures, and to Dorizac’s own colorful layers of cutout paper pieces.

In this interview, we talked to the artist after she touched down in the Land Down Under, where she says she’s experiencing a kind of culture shock coming back. She jokes that her Australian accent is gone and that she’s now full Pinay. When asked about plans to return to Laguna, Dorizac says she’ll go back and forth between her two homes.
In both spaces, Dorizac’s works command attention through a cacophony of colors, shapes, and textures; collages, if you may call them, that defy the basic human instinct to seek patterns in the unfamiliar.

Assemblage is not foreign to the artist, who, prior to returning to Australia to finish her degree in fine arts, resided in Los Baños, Laguna. There at the Fruit Juice Factory, with her husband, artist Miguel Aquilizan, her artist in-laws Isabel and Alfredo Aquilizan, and eight dogs, she toyed with the possibilities of materials in art. It is, after all, a family signature, from Isabel and Alfredo’s wings of sickles to Miguel’s wood and metal sculptures, and to Dorizac’s own colorful layers of cutout paper pieces.

In this interview, we talked to the artist after she touched down in the Land Down Under, where she says she’s experiencing a kind of culture shock coming back. She jokes that her Australian accent is gone and that she’s now full Pinay. When asked about plans to return to Laguna, Dorizac says she’ll go back and forth between her two homes.

This interview was edited for clarity and brevity. “My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods.” Dorizac was born in Brisbane, Australia but hasn’t been there in four years. Her body of work is informed by historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments, especially those found in the architecture in the Philippines. You were born in Brisbane, Australia, and until recently were based in Los Baños, Laguna. Could you share your journey from Australia to the Philippines? When and under what circumstances did you make your move?
Born and raised in the sunshine state of Australia. Deep in suburbia, amongst the landscape of Queenslander houses and the unique flora and fauna of Australia. My parents are both migrants, my mother from the Philippines and my father from New Zealand (Aotearoa).

Love was the circumstance under which I made the move to the Philippines. I met my husband Miguel in 2015, we wed in 2016, and decided Philippines would be the place where we would begin to build our lives together, working alongside each other. With the support of Miguel’s parents, we were able to make the move in 2018 and have been there since. It’s been a wonderful but challenging journey, learning about contemporary Philippine culture and society, and deepening the relationship with my Pinoy side.

The world is now into its third year of living in a pandemic. Have you noticed a clear demarcation in your creative/artistic process between the “before” and “after” relative to the pandemic? In particular, has the pandemic affected your view of productivity as an artist?
The pandemic marked the end of an era. It gave the opportunity to focus deeply on practice without the distractions of the outside world, which is ironic considering the situation.

My work before and after the pandemic is evidently different through exploration of wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, construction paper, cardboard, corrugated board. My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods. Dorizac was born in Brisbane, Australia but hasn’t been there in four years. Her body of work is informed by historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments, especially those found in the architecture in the Philippines. You were born in Brisbane, Australia, and until recently were based in Los Baños, Laguna. Could you share your journey from Australia to the Philippines? When and under what circumstances did you make your move?
Born and raised in the sunshine state of Australia. Deep in suburbia, amongst the landscape of Queenslander houses and the unique flora and fauna of Australia. My parents are both migrants, my mother from the Philippines and my father from New Zealand (Aotearoa).

Love was the circumstance under which I made the move to the Philippines. I met my husband Miguel in 2015, we wed in 2016, and decided Philippines would be the place where we would begin to build our lives together, working alongside each other. With the support of Miguel’s parents, we were able to make the move in 2018 and have been there since. It’s been a wonderful but challenging journey, learning about contemporary Philippine culture and society, and deepening the relationship with my Pinoy side.

The world is now into its third year of living in a pandemic. Have you noticed a clear demarcation in your creative/artistic process between the “before” and “after” relative to the pandemic? In particular, has the pandemic affected your view of productivity as an artist?
The pandemic marked the end of an era. It gave the opportunity to focus deeply on practice without the distractions of the outside world, which is ironic considering the situation.

My work before and after the pandemic is evidently different through exploration of wood in its various forms; raw wood, plywood, wood shavings, construction paper, cardboard, corrugated board. My experimentation with shapes and forms has become more intense and layered, reflective of the environment and probably my own mental scape, as one turns inwards during isolated periods. “I don’t work from a singular idea; I work from a continuation in practice.” “Decorative Disposition” is a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez Your current show at Project Space Pilipinas is part of the art initiative/platform’s celebration of Women’s Month. Could you share the idea behind “Decorative Disposition”? How long did it take for you to create all the pieces that became part of the exhibit?
The works shown in “Decorative Disposition” were made from 2018 through to 2022. They are the totality of my time spent here in the Philippines. Project Space Pilipinas does the necessary work to bring art to the people. Nestled in the small town of Lucban, PSP prides itself on bringing high-quality exhibitions, without the showbiz, to the citizens. Their program for 2022 is dedicated to female artists, cultural workers, and arts professionals. I am very grateful to have been invited to share my work with the support of PSP.

Your art is also on show at The Den. Can you describe as well the idea behind “Assorted Ornaments”?
The title “Assorted Ornaments” is a poke at artworks being purely ornamental.

I don’t work from a singular idea; I work from a continuation in practice. But the choice of words for the title is a [pondering] on artworks purely consumed as ornamental wall pieces. And I do think about that a lot, especially because of the deep relationship the art community has with the art market.
“Decorative Disposition” is a group show at Project Space Pilipinas, a gallery in Lucban, Quezon run by artist Leslie de Chavez. “Patterns and shapes are universal and it’s interesting to see their application over the documented human history, and more interesting to see them in an unexpected arrangement that makes space for new conversations.” “Evening in Floor Plans”
Paper, wooden frame
68cm x 61cm
2022

On display at The Den in Escolta for “Assorted Ornaments” until April 12 and online at thedenmanila.com “Evening in Floor Plans” | Paper, wooden frame | 68cm x 61cm | 2022
On display at The Den in Escolta for “Assorted Ornaments” until April 12 and online at thedenmanila.com What attracts you to using collage and assemblage to express your ideas? Has this been a medium that you’ve always used and been interested in or have there been others that you’ve explored before? In any case, what does the use of this media draw out from you?
I gravitate to collage and assemblage because I enjoy the meditative process of it. The collecting, deconstructing, and organizing.

Your exhibit notes for “Assorted Ornaments” cite your current fascination with historical and urban decorative patterns and ornaments in architecture. Patterns are usually deceptively simplistic regardless of their level of intricacy, meaning they were designed to evoke a sense of reliability and even safety in their predictability. Speaking as someone viewing your pieces, your art, however, bucks that sense of predictability with the layered elements that disrupt the order of the previously set motifs and set off another pattern (though less immediately discernible) on their own. Is that an intentional decision on your part?
It’s both subconscious and conscious; the decisions of the layered elements that disrupt the order of one layer to begin the next. The nature of how I approach my work is quite painterly, many-layered.
“I gravitate to collage and assemblage because I enjoy the meditative process of it. The collecting, deconstructing, and organizing,” the artist says. Given the very human tendency to look for patterns, what do you enjoy (if any) about jolting the audience out of their complacency, at least in the visual sense?
Patterns and shapes are universal and it’s interesting to see their application over the documented human history, and more interesting to see them in an unexpected arrangement that makes space for new conversations.

I am drawn particularly to accidental, painterly compositions found in my immediate environment where various patterns, motifs, colors, textures, and lines are found amongst each other. There is a lot of this play found in the process of interior decoration, too.

As a woman in the arts, how does your womanhood help define or inform your art? And what challenges do you still see women artists face despite their tremendous contribution to the art world, not just in terms of creative output and ideas but also invisible/emotional labor?
I experience life through the lens of being a woman. As I’ve grown into an adult and seen, read, and listened to other women, and their herstory. I’ve realized the first step to protect, defend, and support women is to be active and aware of the many varied challenges that we women face in everyday life, politically, socially, emotionally, spiritually, and professionally. That in itself is invisible labor that we are doing and [I] hope everyone can join us in listening to these conversations. What can we look forward to from you after your two current exhibits?
I have two upcoming exhibits, one is on April 9 for the Libris Awards: The Australian Artists’ Book Prize exhibition at Artspace Mackay here in Australia. The other will be on April 23 in the Philippines. It’s called “Pilgrimage”, a duo show with Miguel at Modeka in Makati. ●
Part II of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month Special For Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking. Interview by September Grace Mahino
Cover photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art direction by Levenspeil Sangalang

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PROFILE Marita Ganse’s art quilts are all about memories The model talks about the art of quilting, her time as a furrier, and finding joy in a slow process Words by TONI POTENCIANO      Photos by JOSEPH PASCUAL In 2018, model Marita Fe Ganse asked her collaborators at Eairth, a local clothing brand, if she could use their retaso to turn into quilts. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt. Her largest project to date—abstract quilt 5 “Pandora’s Box”—is for her friend chef Victor Magsaysay’s home in Subic. “I learned about the community of women that creates the quilts of Gee’s Bend and I was taken by their beautiful geometrically intricate quilts. I knew right away that I wanted to make my own quilts,” Ganse writes in an email.

She’s referring to a historically Black community that lived in an isolated hamlet along Alabama river, whose roots trace back as far as the early 19th-century cotton slave trade. Ferry services to and from the community were only restored in 2006, which meant that the small community of roughly 300 inhabitants lived in relative isolation for more than a hundred years.

But isolation is sometimes the bedfellow of creativity. The women of Gee’s Bend developed a tradition of quiltmaking which was passed down from mother to daughter. The quilts were then a departure from traditional quiltmaking. Gee’s Bend quilts were distinct, known for their “lively improvisations and geometric simplicity.” In 2003, 60 Bender quilts made from 1930 to 2000 were exhibited at the Whitney Museum. The New York Times called it some of the most “miraculous works of modern art America has ever produced.”

In a similar fashion, 36-year-old Ganse turned to quiltmaking during Manila’s strictest lockdowns. She begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Afterwards, each of her quilts are painstakingly handsewn. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt.

“It is a slow process that I really enjoy and don’t want to rush,” she says. “I learned about the community of women that creates the quilts of Gee’s Bend and I was taken by their beautiful geometrically intricate quilts. I knew right away that I wanted to make my own quilts,” Ganse writes in an email.

She’s referring to a historically Black community that lived in an isolated hamlet along Alabama river, whose roots trace back as far as the early 19th-century cotton slave trade. Ferry services to and from the community were only restored in 2006, which meant that the small community of roughly 300 inhabitants lived in relative isolation for more than a hundred years.

But isolation is sometimes the bedfellow of creativity. The women of Gee’s Bend developed a tradition of quiltmaking which was passed down from mother to daughter. The quilts were then a departure from traditional quiltmaking. Gee’s Bend quilts were distinct, known for their “lively improvisations and geometric simplicity.” In 2003, 60 Bender quilts made from 1930 to 2000 were exhibited at the Whitney Museum. The New York Times called it some of the most “miraculous works of modern art America has ever produced.”

In a similar fashion, 36-year-old Ganse turned to quiltmaking during Manila’s strictest lockdowns. She begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Afterwards, each of her quilts are painstakingly handsewn. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt.

“It is a slow process that I really enjoy and don’t want to rush,” she tells me. Depending on the size of the quilt, it takes Ganse anywhere between two weeks to three months to complete a single quilt. Her largest project to date—abstract quilt 5 “Pandora’s Box”—is for her friend chef Victor Magsaysay’s home in Subic. On modeling and training to become a furrier In 2021, Ganse exhibited four quilts at The Den Manila, each piece a play on the tension between colors and shapes. The quilts were created between August to September of that year, around the time the second enhanced community quarantine was imposed. “Each stitch is connected to a moment, a breath, a story,” she writes on Instagram.

Filipina-German Ganse has been living in Manila since 2008. She became muse and model of choice for many high fashion editorials and runways, walking for Tippi Ocampo, Jojie Lloren, and Rajo Laurel. She also frequently modeled for small, slow fashion labels like Rô, Eairth, Áraw, and Josanna. But before her life in Manila, Ganse was training to become a professional furrier.

“I studied fur design in Germany and worked with a couple of fur designers at the same time back in 2004 until 2007. I only stopped when I moved to Manila in 2008,” she recalls. “I started with small modeling jobs when I was a teenager. The fur company I worked for just asked me to model whenever there was an event or for their lookbooks and press releases.”
“Before the pandemic, everything was so fast and busy that I wasn’t aware how much I enjoy doing things slowly, and how satisfying the effects of it are.” After more than a decade of professional modeling, I ask Ganse what it was that made her stay in such a high-pressure industry. She replies that maybe she shouldn’t have. “To be honest, I should have followed my own instinct not to go into modeling for that long,” Ganse writes.
Ganse listens to audiobooks while sewing, a better alternative than music, she says, “Because then I don’t end up dancing and abandoning my quilts.” Video courtesy of artist. Ganse listens to audiobooks while sewing, a better alternative than music, she says, “Because then I don’t end up dancing and abandoning my quilts.” Video courtesy of artist. Early in 2020, Ganse launched Kostüm V, a selection of archival and vintage clothing she describes as “clothes she sees herself wearing.” While she quietly continues to curate the selection, her vintage collection also figures in her art quilts.

“Sometimes I buy secondhand clothes just because of the quality the fabric has, or the fabric is telling me something,” Ganse says. “I like how a textile becomes soft after many years of use and how the color changes. The DNA and story a piece of used clothing can tell is so interesting.”
Textiles as art Marita’s process begins with a sketch of the shapes, pinning down the colors and textures she wants to feature in her quilts. Behind her on the kitchen wall are sketches of some her latest works. The intersection of textile and creative disciplines became newly visible under the Berlin-born artist and designer Bauhaus master Anni Albers, whose textile tapestries were a stark contrast to the glass and steel sculptures of her modern contemporaries in the ’60s. She challenged the notion that weaving was merely women’s work, likening weaving to sculptures and architecture. In the ’70s, African-American Faith Ringgold created her famous “story quilts,” which combined oil paint and quilting techniques to tell the stories of African-American culture and to push for civil rights.

The more contemporary fiber artists have embraced the possibilities offered by the slowness and tactility of textiles in art. In an article with the NY Times, textile artist Sophia Narrett had this to say about her work: “When an object is developed by human hands for hundreds of hours, it leaves a quality in the surface that can be sensed.”

Ganse’s latest work is called “Midnight Water City,” which is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st called “Dwell on Divinities” that opened on March 23. According to Futurist co-founder Samantha Nicole, the show highlights “the otherworldliness of women, non binary, and queer artists.”

“Midnight Water City” is a mix of linen, cotton, cupro, and silk. A row of green and blue triangles run along one side of the quilt as a black moon rises on their horizon. A dark blue ripple gradually increases from one side to the other. “[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.” “[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.” “[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself.” “I was thinking about the cold breeze at night, of sail boats moving with the wind, of a refreshing glass of water in the early hours of the morning,” Ganse tells me. “Midnight Water City,” her latest work, is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st in Poblacion, Makati. Photos courtesy of Kiko Escora It’s made with linen, cotton, cupro, and silk sewn together with a special Japanese thread specifically made for boro stitching called shashiko thread. Ganse favors this cotton thread for its soft yet tight twist. “Midnight Water City,” her latest work, is part of a six-woman group exhibit at Futur:st in Poblacion, Makati.
Photos courtesy of
Kiko Escora It’s made with linen, cotton, cupro, and silk, sewn together with a special Japanese thread called shashiko thread⁠—which Ganse favors for its soft yet tight twist. “Before the pandemic, everything was so fast and busy that I wasn’t aware how much I enjoy doing things slowly, and how satisfying the effects of it are. It clears my mind in a way, and helps me to find a tender way to tell stories.”

When I ask Ganse about what quilting has taught her, she tells me that it has been a lesson in enjoying the slowness, to see a quilt through without obsessing over the small details.

“[I’ve learned] that there is beauty in small imperfections. But to be honest, there is so much more I have to learn about myself,” she says. ●
Part I of III of Nolisoli.ph’s Women’s Month Special For Women’s Month 2022, we interviewed three artists whose works explore the intersection and possibilities of gender and creativity: Marita Ganse on the artistic value of “women’s work;” Jessica Dorizac on juxtaposing forms, layering meaning; and Shireen Seno on mapping the self through filmmaking. FEATURED QUILT

“Half Light Of Dawn”
Linen, cotton, cupro, double gauze backing,
polyfiber wadding, sashiko thread
211cm x 211cm
2022

On display at The Drawing Room as part of group show “The hem of a long conversation” curated by Con Cabrera
Written by Toni Potenciano
Cover photography by Joseph Pascual
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art drection by Levenspeil Sangalang

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Actress Dexter Doria is known for her “kontrabida” roles on television. But offscreen, she is most furious about misinformation, especially surrounding martial law years under the rule of the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos. 

Doria, 66, played an activist nun in a Vince Tañada-directed musical film called “Katips” last year. In an interview, she recounts her experience as a University of the Philippines student during the First Quarter Storm of 1970. She can attest to the atrocities of that period because she was there, she said.

This 2022, she has made it her personal advocacy to enlighten those who willfully believe martial law misinformation circulating on social media even though you could easily disprove these claims with a simple Google search.

“Ako po si Nana Didi, samahan niyo po akong itama ang mga mali at peke sa social media,” a post dated January 10 on the actress’ Facebook page reads. It’s accompanied by a video of her dressed as a teacher addressing a class behind the screen. Her first lesson? Confirmation bias.

Episodes of “Didiserye”, as the series is called, are relatively short at three minutes. Just enough not to drag TikTok-obsessed viewers trained to only consume minute-long media. It’s uploaded weekly on Facebook and YouTube, where false information seemed to have found its captive audience.

With just two episodes out, the series seemed to have hit gold with social media-savvy millennials and Gen Z. The first episode has been viewed over half a million times and shared eleven thousand times on Facebook with twenty-three thousand reactions. Apart from its short attention span-friendly duration, Doria’s delivery is easy to get along with, casual but still maintains an air of authority, thanks to her teacher character.

It’s not alienating for older audiences outside of the two aforementioned demographics, too. Doria, if anything, seems like a tita speaking to her amigas over a video call, albeit the tea being facts and not mere rumors.

Nana Didi’s motto in the show is “Hindi paninira ang pagsasabi ng totoo,” a comeback at critics who are likely to target the show for so-called bias. After all, the elections are just a few months away and the son of the late dictator is running as president. Her latest video released this week debunks martial law myths about the country’s supposed “golden era” and the so-called “comfortable life” Filipinos lived during the Marcoses’ decades-long regime.

Admittedly, the actress is not keen on voting for Ferdinand Marcos Jr. though. “Kasi, hindi lang naman dahil yung tatay, ginawa ito, e. It’s because… yung taong tatakbo, wala talagang kaalam-alam,” she said in one interview.

Nonetheless, what she wants viewers to take away from “Didiserye” is not to take sides, but to not take anything at face value and learn how to fact-check. A timely reminder as we near election season. 

Doria’s series is a refreshing sight to see on our feeds often riddled with news about this and that politician lumped together with political ads. 

As one millennial friend put it, “I wish all boomers are like her.”

____________________________________________________________ PROFILE The queer Filipino-American chef keeping kamayan alive—and meat-free—in New York How chef Woldy Reyes of boutique catering company Woldy Kusina went from questioning caldereta to championing the communal way of eating with bare hands by CHRISTIAN SAN JOSE Woldy Reyes’s earliest memories of food include trips to the butcher with his father and brothers, then going home carrying a black bag with goat meat in it. His Batangueño father would then fire up a pit in their backyard in Walnut, California, and begin the slow process of stewing what would days (!) later become calderetang kambing.  Woldy considers his father and his grandmother (on his mother side) the reasons why he loves cooking so much. Photographed at his Brooklyn residence by Nikki Ruiz “I still intensely remember the smell of fresh outdoor air and garlic, red onions, and jalapeños being sautéed on the open fire,” the chef says.

As a child, Woldy couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just have barbecues like a typical American family instead of a stew cooked in a cauldron that could feed an entire block. “It was almost embarrassing for me to have this huge outdoor fire with the smell of wood burning and sizzling goat meat; I could only imagine what the neighbors were thinking.”

His mother’s side from Manila also migrated to the U.S., so Woldy and his brothers grew up having them around. He and his twin brother would spend afternoons at their grandmother’s, his lola lovingly filling bowls with champorado. He loved it, but still he was clueless as to why he had to have a “second lunch”—merienda in Filipino.

This is not a new feeling for children of immigrants trying to understand their parents’ insistence on embracing the culture of the land they left behind for the promise of America. “Food was her first line of defense against a deep and abiding fear of the Other,” writes Grace M. Cho in the food memoir “Tastes Like War.”

As in “Crying in H Mart” by Korean-American singer and writer Michelle Zauner, Cho, the daughter of a white American merchant marine and a Korean bar hostess, tries to “write her mother back into existence.” Korean culinary heritage is a bridge through which they reconcile their identities and that of their parents.

Woldy’s culinary rekindling didn’t occur until his 30s. By then he was coming to terms with not just his Filipino roots but also his hearing disability and his identity as a gay man.

It happened in 2019, in the company of fellow queer people who share the same love for food at an event called “Pride Table.” He served a reinterpretation of his late father’s calderetang kambing. But instead of steamed white rice, it came topped with a crisp fried rice wrapper typically used for spring rolls.

“Breaking it reveals what is me and what my food culture is,” he says, referring to cracking the rice crisp. “Coming through [the cracks] are these different bold flavors that are me; I am all of these different things.” “I still intensely remember the smell of fresh outdoor air and garlic, red onions, and jalapeños being sautéed on the open fire,” the chef says.

As a child, Woldy couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just have barbecues like a typical American family instead of a stew cooked in a cauldron that could feed an entire block. “It was almost embarrassing for me to have this huge outdoor fire with the smell of wood burning and sizzling goat meat; I could only imagine what the neighbors were thinking.”

His mother’s side from Manila also migrated to the U.S., so Woldy and his brothers grew up having them around. He and his twin brother would spend afternoons at their grandmother’s, his lola lovingly filling bowls with champorado. He loved it, but still he was clueless as to why he had to have a “second lunch”—merienda in Filipino.

This is not a new feeling for children of immigrants trying to understand their parents’ insistence on embracing the culture of the land they left behind for the promise of America. “Food was her first line of defense against a deep and abiding fear of the Other,” writes Grace M. Cho in the food memoir “Tastes Like War.” Woldy considers his father and his grandmother (on his mother side) the reasons why he loves cooking so much. Photographed at his Brooklyn residence by Nikki Ruiz As in “Crying in H Mart” by Korean-American singer and writer Michelle Zauner, Cho, the daughter of a white American merchant marine and a Korean bar hostess, tries to “write her mother back into existence.” Korean culinary heritage is a bridge through which they reconcile their identities and that of their parents.

Woldy’s culinary rekindling didn’t occur until his 30s. By then he was coming to terms with not just his Filipino roots but also his hearing disability and his identity as a gay man.

It happened in 2019, in the company of fellow queer people who share the same love for food at an event called “Pride Table.” He served a reinterpretation of his late father’s calderetang kambing. But instead of steamed white rice, it came topped with a crisp fried rice wrapper typically used for spring rolls.

“Breaking it reveals what is me and what my food culture is,” he says, referring to cracking the rice crisp. “Coming through [the cracks] are these different bold flavors that are me; I am all of these different things.” Fashioning a Filipino food concept A few years before that, Woldy was nowhere near modernizing Filipino flavors and giving it a plant-centric twist. A graduate of hotel and restaurant management, he left his suburban California town for New York. From visual merchandising, he progressed to the ranks of intern to assistant at fashion magazines before landing a sales job at Phillip Lim, where he worked for five and a half years.

“I knew that food was in me to tap into later,” he said in an interview in 2019. But he needed to see where his interest in fashion could take him. Eventually, years in the industry had him yearning for a change of environment. This is when his 180-degree pivot to cooking happened. “When I’m thinking about the things that I grew up eating,
I constantly think of how I could remake it using seasonal produce.” “When I get into a kitchen there is a different feeling. I’m creating and there’s joy in it,” he added in the same interview.

Woldy Kusina, a boutique catering company that prides itself on using seasonal and locally sourced produce, was launched in 2016. He started small, making fresh and vegetable-forward spreads of colorful crudites, herb-embedded frittatas, salads of blood oranges, and naturally-dyed hummus for friends’ intimate gatherings. Soon, he was creating designer banquets for fashion brands like Rebecca Minkoff, Christian Louboutin, Derek Lam, Moda Operandi, and MatchesFashion, with which he later collaborated on a pop-up café named after his business. Beet-cured organic salmon, heirloom tomatoes, red onions, cucumbers, red radishes, capers, dill, cream cheese, and multigrain bread.

Photo by
Cristian V. Candami Beet-cured organic salmon, heirloom tomatoes, red onions, cucumbers, red radishes, capers, dill, cream cheese, and multigrain bread. Photo by
Cristian V. Candami These relationships are made in fashion heaven. Woldy knew how obsessed this crowd is with aesthetics and how they could be health-conscious. “​​I understood my fashion clients and what they wanted to eat—primarily very vegetable-focused meals.”

New York publications then started catching up with Woldy Kusina. Gwyneth Paltrow’s goop included the caterer in its New York services directory, while New York Magazine’s The Cut named his caviar-and-avocado multigrain toast and fall-vegetable hash with butternut squash, Tuscan kale, oyster mushrooms, prosciutto di Parma, and soft-boiled egg, “breakfast foods worth serving at a black-tie wedding.” Produce may have front row seats at his fashion feasts but Woldy—the person and the company—is not exclusively vegan. Occasionally he would do animal protein like a scarlet red beet-cured organic salmon (responsibly caught, of course). “I am very strategic about eating meat,” he says. “That’s also compounded with the world that we’re living in right now and how that’s going to affect future generations. I think it’s very important that we progress into eating more plant-based.” “I had that sort of internal struggle like, ‘Is this really Filipino?’ But then again, I am Filipino-American and I think I’m bridging those two together.” His inclination towards fresh produce he takes from his lola’s vegetable-filled kitchen. Living on the East Coast where harvest is dictated by the seasons also influenced him. Among his favorites are purple ninja and watermelon radishes chiefly for the color they impart on Filipino dishes known for its browns, oranges, and deep reds—a reason why Woldy wasn’t a fan of his father’s caldereta decades before.

“When I’m thinking about the things that I grew up eating, I constantly think of how I could remake it using seasonal produce,” he says. “Knowing that Filipino dishes are very hearty and meaty, I try to find vegetables that are also hearty. And I obviously love color so I try to bridge the two together.”
‘With boodle fight, is a fight going to happen?’ A year before his caldereta remake, Woldy was in the New York Times for another Filipino dish he made for Queer Soup Night, a Brooklyn-born international community kitchen raising funds for LGBTQ+ causes. It was sotanghon with shredded chicken breast and transparent vermicelli noodles swimming in a garlicky broth.

A year later, he did a rainbow rendition of pancit with colorful radishes (purple ninja, watermelon, daikon, Chinese rose), garlic chives, and confetti flowers for good measure.

The question of whether his take on Filipino cuisine is authentic or not is never lost on Woldy. Migrant cooks, after all, tend to be most riddled with the dilemma of representing “real Filipino food,” as the late Clinton Palanca wrote.

“I had that sort of internal struggle like, ‘Is this really Filipino?’ But then again, I am Filipino-American and I think I’m bridging those two together,” he self-assesses.
A kamayan spread by Woldy at Maiden Hotel. Photo by Noah Fecks A kamayan spread by Woldy at Maiden Hotel.
Photo by Noah Fecks In lieu of the key Filipino condiments like toyo, or the many specific kinds of suka that trapeze between sour and sweet, Woldy has streamlined his own substitutes. He’s distilled Filipino tastes to accessible ingredients (tamari, coconut vinegar, or plain distilled vinegar) without losing the beating heart of each dish: infallible depth of flavor.

This improvisation is on full display at his kamayan series that started in late 2019. It’s based on the Filipino communal way of eating on a banana leaf laid with steamed white rice and a variety of viands, from roasted vegetables and seafood to saucy stews and hearty soups. While it is popularly known here as “boodle fight,” Woldy went with the term “kamayan” as it translates to a more amicable eating experience. “With boodle fight, is a fight going to happen?” he jokes. (The term did originate from a military tradition, so who knows?) Plus, it is nowhere near your typical boodle fight spread.

Banana leaves were piled with adobong hen-of-the-woods, cauliflower Bicol Express, kabocha squash kare-kare and lumpia. All these were served over spice-infused steamed rice. For dessert, Woldy’s frequent collaborator, gluten-free baker Lani Halliday, made small bibingka topped with edible gold, peanut brittle, and guava cream cheese.

The kamayan dinner landed a T Magazine review and praise from Filipino-Hawaiian food and culture critic Ligaya Mishan, who called it “thoroughly modern.” Woldy and Lani during their Kamayan dinner in February 2020. Photo by Joshua Bouman Setting the table for a kamayan feast. Photo by Joshua Bouman Woldy and Lani during
their Kamayan dinner
in February 2020 Setting the table for a kamayan feast. Photos by Joshua Bouman Unlike a typical kamayan, theirs was held in the most unlikely of venues: inside the Flatiron’s Maiden Hotel with a $100 ticket charge. It ran until the onset of the pandemic in March, right up until eating so close together along with other “rituals” of kamayan were deemed public health hazards.

“I remember the hotel’s general manager calling me as I was getting ready for the dinner to ask if I want to still do it but have hand sanitizers on the table,” Woldy recalls. “I’m like, ‘Let me just think about it.’ I worked really hard to create this Filipino food cultural experience and it’s plant-based, but at the time, I didn’t understand the severity of what was happening. I decided to just cancel it because I thought having hand sanitizers on the table took out the romance of that part of eating.”
A slice of pie for queer POC chefs Woldy at Fort Greene Park in Brooklyn photographed by Nikki Ruiz Woldy is hardly the first to bring kamayan to New York. In fact, he recalls having first heard of it through Nicole Ponseca’s Jeepney, a Filipino gastropub in East Village. Ponseca, who’s also behind Jeepney’s predecessor Maharlika, is credited for popularizing eating with bare hands in New York.

Jeepney’s feast on banana leaves is closer to the kamayan experience in the homeland, with familiar forms and flavors and none of the plant-based alternatives. Think rice with tocino cured in 7Up, longganisa, and pork stewed in “a fascinating chocolate-colored sauce of beef blood,” as per food critic Pete Wells’ review. Woldy at Fort Greene Park in Brooklyn photographed by Nikki Ruiz “I think being visible and sharing our story is important so that we can change the traditional white man-run kitchen into something where more people of color are in charge.” Chef and writer Yana Gilbuena, on the other hand, in 2014, set out to decentralize Filipino food’s fame away from major U.S. cities by hosting kamayan-style pop-ups in all 50 states. She told Eating Well magazine in July this year: “Well, what about the folks in Kentucky? Or Maine? Do they have to travel to New York just to get a taste? I said, f**k it. I’ll just go bring it to them!”

Then there’s queer Filipinx chef Silver Cousler, the mind behind what would be Ashville, North Carolina’s first Filipinx restaurant, Neng Jr.’s. In February this year, they partnered with cook and writer Alison Roman for a boodle fight in Savannah, Georgia, which doubled as a fundraiser for their restaurant. “I think being visible and sharing our story is important so that we can change the traditional white man-run kitchen into something where more people of color
are in charge.” Silver and Woldy share more in common beyond their queer identities and Filipino roots. While the former has worked in formal restaurant settings and the latter is more versed in running kitchens with free rein, they both dream of a more inclusive and safer working environment for queer chefs of color. In a piece for Thrillist earlier this year, Silver wrote of the possibility of a restaurant environment where people of color have an equal slice of the proverbial pie. “I think a lot of that (inequalities) can disappear just with equitable pay all around. I know it’s not always possible for all restaurants, but with my restaurant, it’s absolutely possible and I’m going to make it happen.” Neng Jr.’s is scheduled to open this year.

For Woldy, it’s high time queer and people of color are given the long-overdue credit for their food cultures that white men have profited off of. “We’re trying to break the door, break the ceiling to create more of a safer space for people like us to thrive and be in without being suppressed,” he says. “That’s what’s happening now. I think being visible and sharing our story is important so that we can change the traditional white man-run kitchen into something where more people of color are in charge, and it’s hopefully a safe environment for work in, too. That’s what I’m hopeful for.”
Rice that binds Woldy’s bibingka with coconut glaze. Photo by Kelsey Cherry 2020 marked a decade of Woldy living in New York. Like any other queer individual welcomed by the city, he has his own chosen family.

This includes Lani and pastry chef Eric See. They all had their start at a community kitchen for food start-ups called Brooklyn Food Works, which is now Pilotworks Brooklyn after it was bought out in 2018. The change in management left the businesses it used to shelter without a place to operate. Eric decided to get their own space, which became Ursula, a New Mexican café in Brooklyn. Woldy was one of the LGBTQ+ guest chefs he invited. “I thank him for that, that he was able to save my business,” he says.

Up until the easing of restrictions in the city, he was unable to do catering with social gatherings on hold. What he did instead was pay it forward to his community. He’s made meals for folks at Ali Forney Center, a non-profit providing shelter and healthcare services to underprivileged LGBTQ+ youth. He also organized food drives for health frontliners, making sustaining and vibrantly-plated meals, like pancit with creamy sesame ginger dressing and a chicken adobo and portobello mushrooms sub. “My brain is always thinking of other ways to make Filipino food even more interesting and progressive.” When he is not doing all that, you can find him at various pop-ups in the city along with his chef friends, where, again, he is pushing the Filipino food agenda. One of the places he frequents is Hunky Dory by Filipino-American restaurateur ​Claire Sprouse in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

If he’s not there, you can always find him on TikTok, dancing to his divas in the woods, on the road after a run, or in the kitchen in full chef regalia. On Instagram, along with his decidedly New Yorker style (quilted Bode jacket! Eckhaus Latta graphic top! J.Crew basics, of which he was once its campaign star!), his culinary creations are hard to miss. These include his various takes on the classic Filipino kakanin bibingka. Going back to his mother’s recipe for cassava cake, a fixture in their family’s holiday table, has inspired him to create its cousin from glutinous rice flour. “I made bibingka one day because I was researching Filipino baked goods that were simple enough to make. It’s been like three years of trying to understand how to make bibingka and then finding a recipe that was true to me before it became my go-to recipe.”

His bibingkas are as flamboyant as his fashion banquets. Decked in seasonal produce, he’s made the rice cake in a number of forms: petit fours, pan sheet cake, glazed birthday cake with fruit toppers, loaf wrapped in a blanket of banana leaves. His latest was featured on Bon Appétit, vegan and gluten-free bibingka waffles topped with fresh fruits, toasted coconut flakes, and coconut yogurt. (The traditional recipe calls for eggs and butter, which he substituted with club soda and coconut oil.) It was a dream come true for Woldy to be featured on a revered food publication, and sort of symbolic, too, he adds. “I’m a fan of Bon Appétit. My first [published] recipe is obviously a hybrid of Filipino and American and calling it bibingka waffles is something that’s cool to see.”

What’s next on his mission to bring bibingka to the fore? He’s toying around with mixing cassava and glutinous rice flour, an ode to another pastry creation of his mom. “I’m putting fresh fruit on the bottom of the pan and then inverting it,” he says. “Basically, it’s a take on my dad’s favorite cake, the pineapple upside-down cake.”

He’s also tinkering with using fig leaves as a vessel for bibingka in the absence of banana leaves. “You can actually eat the fig leaves!” he says. “I think that also creates that sort of new but familiar [feeling]. My brain is always thinking of other ways to make Filipino food even more interesting and progressive.” Woldy currently resides in Brooklyn where he is photographed by Nikki Ruiz Woldy currently resides in Brooklyn where he is photographed by Nikki Ruiz Going back to his mother’s recipe for cassava cake, a fixture in their family’s holiday table, has inspired him to create its cousin from glutinous rice flour. “I made bibingka one day because I was researching Filipino baked goods that were simple enough to make. It’s been like three years of trying to understand how to make bibingka and then finding a recipe that was true to me before it became my go-to recipe.”

His bibingkas are as flamboyant as his fashion banquets. Decked in seasonal produce, he’s made the rice cake in a number of forms: petit fours, pan sheet cake, glazed birthday cake with fruit toppers, loaf wrapped in a blanket of banana leaves. His latest was featured on Bon Appétit, vegan and gluten-free bibingka waffles topped with fresh fruits, toasted coconut flakes, and coconut yogurt. (The traditional recipe calls for eggs and butter, which he substituted with club soda and coconut oil.) It was a dream come true for Woldy to be featured on a revered food publication, and sort of symbolic, too, he adds. “I’m a fan of Bon Appétit. My first [published] recipe is obviously a hybrid of Filipino and American and calling it bibingka waffles is something that’s cool to see.”

What’s next on his mission to bring bibingka to the fore? He’s toying around with mixing cassava and glutinous rice flour, an ode to another pastry creation of his mom. “I’m putting fresh fruit on the bottom of the pan and then inverting it,” he says. “Basically, it’s a take on my dad’s favorite cake, the pineapple upside-down cake.”

He’s also tinkering with using fig leaves as a vessel for bibingka in the absence of banana leaves. “You can actually eat the fig leaves!” he says. “I think that also creates that sort of new but familiar [feeling]. My brain is always thinking of other ways to make Filipino food even more interesting and progressive.” Written and produced by Christian San Jose
Cover photography by Nikki Ruiz
Creative direction by Nimu Muallam
Art drection, layout and design by Levenspeil Sangalang PHOTO BY NIKKI RUIZ

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