on being an artist

“𝐒𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬–𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧?–𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬.”

— 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒, 𝐏𝐚𝐳 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐳 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐳

— my retaliation was unearthed from the avidity of the ones before me: the heroes of the streets, the ones who struggled with the oppressed, and the ones who decapitated and disarmed the selfish and the apathetic. i prehend their light and beseech for their weaponry of nationalism and profound love for the Filipino people. may they rest in peace as the youth come in solidarity against the contemporary societal ills.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝟏. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. i don't believe in one, but if they exist, this god must really be bad at measurements for how they have failed to make identical bodies, so people could have seen others as equal. but as i learned sketching people's faces, i realized how beauty standards have been deeply rooted in my cognition: deep eyes and nicely curled lashes, perfectly carved out eyebrows, pointed nose and correctly placed highlights, and a thin pair of lips. but as i looked at the faces of many, of the masses, of the common people, i realized how the concept of beauty materialised into something which profits from the people who have succumbed to it and that some of the most beautiful hearts barely looked like the ones i drew. i realized how capitalism enslaved our own perceptions of ourselves, which, in effect, have instilled elitist and classist perspectives among us.

𝟐. 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬. sometimes, the streets need it the most. the tireless highways and the vulcanizing shops paraded along it. the minimum wage earners. we inculcate them to the misinformed and the ones who chose to look away. however, i cannot speak in the language of the privileged and speak for the masses. i learned the importance of medium—of representation, of culture, of what can be most understood rather than pure intellectual masturbation.

𝟑. 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐢 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬; it is a protest, a prerequisite for a revolution, an instrumentality for national consciousness. besides, art is political—it is determined in its context; it doesn't exist in a vacuum. it reflects idealogies and materializes belief systems in a certain political and social atmosphere. whoever sees art for art itself is an audience, but the one who sees art beyond the dimensions of the canvas is a critic.

— like julia salas to alfredo salazar, like a dead star to an old traveller, i walk along the path paved by our unsung heroes, the ones the books barely talked about, the ones buried in deep slumber. 𝙞 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚.