si kuya at kanta

this is up at Metakritiko where i’ve been alive in times that this blog isn’t. trying to link ’em all together obviously.

medyo hirap lang sa dating sariling namamayagpag sa blog na ito, na sa kasalukuyan (at dapat pala) ay (parating!) rine-revise. so in the meantime, eto ang isang sariling enjoy sa pagsusulat tungkol sa kulturang popular, lahat pinapatulan, lahat may posibilidad ng subersyon/pag-aklas/pagbabago, gaano man kaliit.

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Mix Tape 1: Ode to Sibling-hood

When I was a kid, my liking for the local was judged as baduy by my Kuya who took to liking everything not Pinoy. We fought over the remote control on Sundays when I couldn’t get enough of GMA Supershow, and he wanted the rerun of any other foreign show or movie on Channel 9. I watched That’s Entertainment, day in day out, to Kuya’s raised eyebrows. Yes, the talentless lived there, and they were “watermelon singing!” Kuya said, exasperated. That is, they didn’t know the words to the songs they pre-recorded and so they just keet repeating the word “watermelon.”

And here, the songs that I love(d) from the height of baduy Origina Pilipino Music (OPM) in the mid-80s to early 90s, all of which I’ve got memorized like a know how to ride a bike, to Kuya’s distress/disgust/despair, of course.

Side A: The Baduy Collection

  1. I Love You Boy, Timmy Cruz
  2. Points of View, Pops Fernandez and Joey Albert
  3. I Remember the Boy, Joey Albert
  4. Mr. Kupido, Rachel Alejandro
  5. Kapag Tumibok ang Puso, Donna Cruz
  6. Mr. Dreamboy Sheryl Cruz
  7. I Like You, Geneva Cruz

Ituloy ang pagbabasa todits.

The one thing that resonates about Juan Sajid Imao’s recent work is its pain, and how this
seamlessly intertwines with strength in black and red brass sculptures that make up Open
Endings (Net Quad, Deutsche Knowledge Services Lobby, presented by Project Art and 1/off).
In a country where sculptors are few and far between, most of who work on the universal
notions of humanity and being Pinoy, there was something strikingly different about Imao’s work
here. And no, it isn’t just the fact of its colors against this building’s stark white floors. It’s the
fact of relevance and power all in a tightly knit package, ready for the taking. And you leave the
exhibit having taken so much more than the imagers of these works.
The power of sculpture
The awe in Imao’s work begins with the fact that it is in thick heavy brass, mostly in big forms –
a life-size woman’s upper body here, her whole length there, an oversized head covering what
looks like miniature versions of the U.P. oblation, oversized heads, a life-size crumpled body
of a man. The three-dimensionality of it refuses that one walk past any piece of work, forcing
the spectator to stand and stare, touch and feel, live with the works, if only for a bit. That one
moment, after all is kept by spectator and kept in check, like that tiny note you fold as tiny as
possible and keep in your wallet for good luck.
And yet, this isn’t about luck at all, what Imao talks about. In fact, if anything it is about taking
the things you need to do and actually seeing them through to their painful ends, a matter-of-
fact take on the lives we live as third world Pinoys in poor and difficult Philippines.
The power of knowing
The one thing that was unexpected in Imao’s work here is the fact that it chose to deal, not just
with our own issues as nation, but more importantly with how these issues affect us as people.
“Fight To Learn” is a sculpture of a man, arms in front of him, fists held tight, body tense. He is
wrapped and padlocked from the waist down in the head of Andres Bonifacio, painted in bright
red. The power lies in the truth that we are at the point where even knowledge doesn’t come
easy, and is only worthy of those who will struggle and fight for truths that are otherwise kept
silent.
Meanwhile “Namamaluktot” is the sculpture of a man curled up, with arms around the legs, head
bowed. On the man’s head is a piggybank slot; on his back a red slab that’s made to look like a
vault. To know that it is the one who is curled up to the point of hunger and suffering, that works
harder than the absent man who earns from him. That is nothing but powerful.
The power of living
The two pregnant bellies are Imao’s paean to how a woman’s life as mother is now lived.
In “Freedom” the small pregnant belly looks to be a separate piece, hinged onto the woman’s
body, its two doors padlocked in the middle. The irony of course is that this is called freedom,
where a woman’s body is padlocked into and by pregnancy. At the same time, the sculpture’s
comfortable stance, its stand which is made to look almost like a skirt, speaks of a freedom in its
mere being.
It’s a “A Lifetime of Letters” though that’s more powerful here. The woman’s pregnant body is
painted lengthwise with red, which is transformed into a mailbox with the opening above the
breasts, and the bellybutton as keyhole. It’s a fitting tribute to motherhood as an institution that’s
all about being left behind, with the end of pregnancy as the first instance of such, the future of
letter-writing probably its last and final instance.
The power of self
“Conversation” is two façades of a face, cut at the ears, attached to each other as if in line, the
one facing the world in black, the one behind it in red. The power of it lies in the truth of masks
and silence, what we reveal, who we actually are. The silence of it lies as well in the fact of its
being a closed unit, the conversation is between your two selves, the ones that’s out there, and
the one that’s only yours.
“Call” is a one-dimensional face with mouth wide open, eyeholes left hollow. It is at once an
image of a man in distress, as it is of one in an act of revolt and rebellion, the scream as always
an act of survival. That we scream is a measure of how alive we are, how sure of ourselves,
how important it is to continue to fight.
And this is the gift that you take home with you in the face of this open ending. That Imao
himself is suffering a condition that might lead to his blindness, adds another layer of power to
this exhibit, as it does add another layer of humanity – and truth – to yours. Every other sculptor
would be hard put to beat that, eyesight notwithstanding.

The one thing that resonates about Juan Sajid Imao’s recent work is its pain, and how this seamlessly intertwines with strength in black and red brass sculptures that make up Open Endings (Net Quad, Deutsche Knowledge Services Lobby, presented by Project Art and 1/of, now at 1/of Gallery, Serendra, Taguig City).

In a country where sculptors are few and far between, most of who work on the universal notions of humanity and being Pinoy, there was something strikingly different about Imao’s work here. And no, it isn’t just the fact of its colors against this building’s stark white floors. It’s the fact of relevance and power all in a tightly knit package, ready for the taking. And you leave the exhibit having taken so much more than the imagers of these works. (more…)

and no, this isn’t about hayden kho, at this point staying in bad relationships and publicizing them seems more stupid than it is unacceptable. but really, the way this woman has crossed that line between selling beauty and making it an ideology, even a religion, as if beauty is the end all and be all of our lives, and no do not tell me about artistas.

because there are plenty of artistas who don’t have, and will choose not, to go through medical and dermatological procedures to be “perfect”, plenty artistas who in fact refuse perfect and say, well, i’m talented, and what are  you?  we grew up seeing Judy Ann Santos’ big cheeks, and what did she do? when it was time she lost weight and lost it, too. Iza Calzado was a big girl on television, and yes with fuller cheeks, and the next this we knew she had lost weight and was being healthy about her diet.

there was no Belo to do an injection here, a tuck there, no Belo to tell them, well, this is what you need to be pretty. because what is this pretty that Belo sells? plumper lips? less of a chin? pointed noses? deep-set eyes?

botox on those cheeks para “mawala ang bulge”? thermage on the face para “lumiit ang mukha”? good lord, Vicky Belo, when does it stop? and at what age,  praytell?

because to have even allowed Charice Pempengco to go through that botox procedure, one that’s suppose to bring back how the international singer looked three years ago! is just sick. three years ago she was 15! tell me, show me, how important it is that an 18 year old girl look like she’s 15. tell me how this is all important, the enterprise of the cheeks, let’s all get smaller faces people, this is what’s deemed important by the best-looking woman on the face of this third world planet.

and please, read up on the order of events, and realize that this whole TMJ ailment that they now say Charice had, ergo the botox and thermage? it happens after the fact. and really, if there was an ailment, why not go to a real doctor? Belo meanwhile had what seemed to her a perfectly rationale, albeit shallow, explanation for why she herself recommended these procedures to this young girl. Charice herself would go on to say that she wanted to look “fresh” for her Glee role.

well honey, that show has a guy in a wheelchair, an overweight girl, a chinky-eyed pale teenager, and big-mouthed wide-eyed lead star. the whole point of Glee is that these highschool nobodys, these stereotypical outcasts, find their voices and selves in the glee club through sheer acceptance of their flaws, as it is the realization of their talents. and i say to your supporters, google it and read up.

looking “fresh” is farthest from Glee’s repertoire. and so are smaller cheeks. elsewhere in the world, it is not a Vicky Belo aesthetic or ideology that rules. now Charice appears in websites like famousplastic.com and awfulplasticsurgery.com. how can that be a good thing?

speaking literally, in the sense that you carry your own bags, with no real options for help, no man to take pity, at least no man that’s yours. and this is the story of you, having a boy all the time, since you were in college to post-grad, working as teacher, living alone. there was always a boy.

and you do this on purpose of course, calling all your men, boys.

because that’s how they become, you find. they become such in the course of time, because you have the temerity to stay in relationships even when there were signs that told you to go, leave, walk away while you can. but alwaysyou see it through to what are generally painful ends, thinking it right that you do so, there is no other way,  you are proven wrong not soon enough.

and you struggle with your heavy bags and pray to the heavens that you’re going in the right direction to your bed and breakfast. you get to your room and find it unkempt, the last customer just left, the one who’s responsible missing. you get to the Eiffel tower by pressing on, you get there hungry, and with blisters on your feet, you chide yourself for these mistakes, no one else is at fault. you are always at fault.

you are in the Metro and it’s dingy and smelly, yet you need it to find your way, so you deal with its smell and chew some gum, light a cigarette. you plod on with a confidence that’s mistaken for certainty, you always know your way, you’re the one who knows what to do.

you shuffle through too many Metro stations, you walk through long unfamiliar streets. with blistered feet, you take some photos, plenty of them bad, some of them good. you have no conversation save for what’s in your head, and in there it is plenty and dynamic and brilliant, you wonder who can get it.

you wonder where you are. except that you’re here, where it’s clear what you’re up against and where you need to go. this is more than you’ve known of yourself since you’ve had a man. you should know to take this one as a sign.