The Industry's Big Guns

Wyg Tysman and Marge Enriquez came to photograph the house for the December issue of the Philippine Tatler. I am in awe of how meticulous Wyg is. I have never seen a more thorough photographer at work. I'm merely a bystander and I'm tired already just watching them fuss over the smallest crease in the bed sheet, which is invisible to the clueless like me. Amazing! Marge is such a skilled interviewer; she comes up with the most unexpected questions that one never imagines having to prepare for, so the result is a distilled version of the truth. She's brilliant at what she does.

Utzon's Genius

Both times that I had stood within close range of the Sydney Opera House, simply standing there in silence and beholding it, there was a strong yet indescribable emotion that tugged at my gut. This same syndrome happens to me each time I come across something or someone phenomenal.

Imagine having something as grand and imposing as that in your own country, something that would boost national pride and identity.

The Sydney Opera House, an arts complex, was done in the Modern Expressionist architectural style by Danish architect, Jorn Utzon. It has a solid concrete frame and a precast concrete ribbed roof, which is often referred to as "shells." Each of these shells that form the roof are taken from a hemisphere of the same structure.

It is one of the world's most distinctive 20th century buildings and was made a UNESCO world heritage sight in June 2007. Formal construction of the Opera House started in 1959. The project was built in three stages and was finally completed in 1973--14 years!

A Brave Show of Talent

Belli has been playing violin for eight years now under an incredible teacher, Teacher Lois Espinosa. We carry no gene for musicality in our family so clearly, Belli wasn't born with a gift, or maybe, not even an ear for music. But I went ahead, bought her a tiny violin and enrolled her in classes. It is probably fate that I found Teacher Lois, who has, singlehandedly, nurtured a love for music in her. Now, she can play Bach and Mozart but over and above that she can grope around for notes to pop songs. She has not had formal lessons in piano but, in the same fashion, she can play by ear.

This is fierce testament to the fact that musical talent can be cultivated. This time, definitely, nurture wins over nature. However, given Belli's personality, this talent has been pickled in the house for eight years. I never meant for her to showboat but I have badgered her constantly to play for others (outside of the loyal audience in her annual recitals, who are all family members of fellow violinists). She is a sort of Shrinking Violet, one who hates calling attention to herself. I keep telling her that not sharing one's talent is a crime against humanity, but she laughs it all off.

She practices on her own at home and each time I hear the strains of her violin, which, as an instrument emits a very haunting, melancholy sound, my hair stands. Hearing her play never fails to move me. I stop in my tracks, drop whatever it is I am doing and listen in deference to her talent, in appreciation of her efforts, and in celebration of music.

Today, for the very first time since she first picked up a violin, she played in public. Along with a group of middle school kids, she played a pop song by the local band, Narda. One of them chose the song and asked her if she could play to it. She listened to the song once, groped around for the notes and then played it like she, herself, wrote the music. She was very nervous climbing up that stage, I saw it in her eyes. But the moment she posed bow against strings and and slid it down to create the most hushed of musical wails, she was off to her own world. I was blown away.

Pushing the Body

Belli has been dancing classical ballet for many years. It takes up much of her time. Ever since she got to middle school she has had to make a serious commitment to the dance because juggling her schedule has been challenging. She goes three times a week: Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays for three to four hours each time. Too much for a 12-year-old, I think sometimes. But she loves it: the dance itself and her ballet family of extremely supportive classmates and and an excellent teacher and mentor. Her body looks for it; she doesn't feel good whenever she stops for extended periods in the summer. She cries each time we go out of town because it means missing her dance classes. It has been the bone of contention in the family because we have had to give way to her dancing. But this is how parental support is measured, I believe, when we have to have to make sacrifices as well.

Yesterday, she complained of pain in her legs (Belli never complains and when she does, I know it is at an advanced stage). I was worried because she had a class in the afternoon so I asked her if she wanted to call in sick. She said no; she was adamant. I questioned her decision, maybe even having said something like it was silly to dance in pain. She lectured me about pushing the body and discipline. It was like hearing myself talk four years ago. Didn't I give that very same speech to her when she was whining about having to go to ballet classes?

She wobbled when she walked and had trouble stretching her legs. I was in the brink of pulling rank and demanding her to stay home but that familiar inner voice whispered that I shouldn't. So I didn't. But I went with her to class and sat there for the entire three hours to make sure she was okay. And she was. She danced like her life depended on it, through the pain and the discomfort. I saw her grimace every so often. She was sweating bullets and gulped down water as though she were in the desert. I kept quiet in my corner fighting the instinct to take her home and nurse her in bed.

In between routines she bantered with her classmates and giggled with them. Over what? I couldn't hear. They egged each other on the floor and clapped for well-executed steps. They were a happy supportive bunch. But more than that they were hard workers, athletes all, who pushed their bodies to the edge, falling and tripping and pushing some more.

At the end of the three hours, they were spent but still smiling. I thought to myself, how could they do all this? We all know the answer.

Mamma Mia!

I finally caught Mamma Mia, the movie.  I had a chance to watch the musical twice, both in London, but two years apart and both times, even with the different casts, it was excellent.  I didn't want to enter the cinema with high expectations but Meryl Streep truly pulled it off.  I can't say the same for Pierce Brosnan.  He looked too stiff and too self-conscious. Each time he broke into song he looked as though he were staring at himself in a mirror. Also, I couldn't get past his "Bond, James Bond" signature face, complete with the squint and one brow lifted.

Of course, the Abba songs were wonderful, they are a throwback to a time when melody and lyrics were what mattered most. This was way before avant garde tastes invaded the music industry and before deconstruction was ushered in by post-modernity. Many say "cheesy and downright baduy," but hey, I'll take the Abba sound over hip hop and country any day. There, I just gave away my age. Also, show me someone who won't break into dance when he hears "Dancing Queen" at full blast.

But what really moved me was the scene where mother helped daughter get ready for the wedding. That, to me, was the heart of the movie. I think of how now, everyone is so caught up with the dress designer, the make-up artist, photographer--all big names in the wedding industry and hired for hundreds of thousands that the mother of the bride can't even get a minute with her daughter before she marches down the aisle. Sad...

Maybe, we should make some changes and let the mother have more time with her daughter and get her more actively involved in the few hours leading up to the ceremony. Well, it's just a thought.

The Role of Artists

Belli asked me some weeks back why the world has artists and what purpose does art serve.  I told her I needed to get back to her on that one because I had no ready answer.  I did, after a day or two.

I told her that aside from the obvious, which is entertainment that all artists provide the general public with, be they visual or performance artists, actors, writers, musicians, their role is to ask or pose questions.  Their art should bring focus to issues that need to be addressed.  As a writer, allow me to say that some think we have the answers.  We don't; we are as clueless as everyone else.  Those who insist that they do should probably not be trusted.  But in this profession, I think we have the duty to ask questions, to highlight issues that need to be addressed for changes to happen whether it involves interpersonal relationships, governance, environmental concerns, anything under the sun, which when processed as an individual or community, may alleviate our lives.

So, Belli asked me, "You mean, a Picasso painting of a woman with distorted features is an attempt to ask a question?"  Baffled by the intensity of her words I tried a good out.  I answered, "Sure.  The lady is portrayed with distorted features because her life is not in order, maybe even troubled to some extent, or conflicted at the very least.  So Picasso asks the viewer to contemplate on what causes this and what can be done to avoid it or remedy it."  

After some thought, she said, "Hmmmm..."  I don't know whether I made sense or not.

The Genius of Frank O. Gehry

The front entrance

Jimi Hendrix' guitar

The back entrance

The Experience Music Project (EMP) is a Seattle outfit dedicated to the exploration of creativity and innovation in popular music. EMP claims to capture and reflect the essence of rock and roll, its roots in jazz, soul, gospel, country, and the blues, as well as rock's influence on hip-hop, punk, and recent genres.

It sits at the foot of the Seattle Space Needle and is housed in a structure designed by the flambouyant architect, Frank Gehry, best known for his work with aluminum sheets, forged and molded to simulate the properties of fabric. He uses them as fabric would be used in pleats, ruffles, drapes, and tucks. One forgets that metal is the medium he uses--an artistic feat of grand proportions. But it is just a bit over-the-top for me. I think his best work is the Dancing Couple Building in Prague where the aluminum sheets effectively duplicate the swish of a woman's skirt in mid-twirl whilst dancing with her partner. The glass windows were also fashioned to show movement in dance for consistency. His choice of retaining the original color of aluminum, which is silver, was crucial for the piece. Had he opted to color the building, it would have cheapened the whole thing.

The EMP seemed Baroque, Rococo, and gypsy all at once--a bit rich for my blood, too Liberace meets Little Richard.

The highlight of this Museum was the sight of Jimi Hendrix' guitar. I worshipped at the altar of a music god while the children kept chanting, "Jimi who, Jimi who?"

Road Trip

Seattle Art Museum Olympic Sculpture Park

"Eagle" by Alexander Calder

"Love and Loss" by Roy Makin
"Eye Benches" by Louise Bourgeois. The backs of the benches are giant all-seeing eyes.
"The Gate"

"Split" by Roxy Paine

"Wake" by Richard Serra

"Typewriter Eraser" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen

We drove down the Pacific Northwest trail for four days taking the coastal route. It seemed exactly like driving around New England with the winding, narrow roads backed by craggy mountainous terrain on one side and the crashing surf on the other. When it wasn't overcast and the light was good, the views were spectacular.

Our ultimate destination was Portland, Oregon by way of Seattle, Washington to visit museums, sight-see, and shop because Oregon is a shopper's haven--no sales tax on anything. It is one of the most affluent American states. Employment rate is comparatively high; most public transportation is free--imagine that!

Our first stop was the Seattle Art Museum (SAM) Olympic Sculpture Park. It was voted Best Museum Design in 2007. It s Seattle's newest sustainable green space for art and people, originally conceived to camouflage the old railroad tracks underneath. It overlooks the Puget Sound so that the backdrop of the water and the foreground of the garden showcase the gigantic sculptures set outdoors in the best way possible.

The biggest endowment for this outdoor museum came from...you guessed it! Bill Gates, Washington state's richest resident. The award winning designers are Weiss/Manfredi who built the structure as a work of art in itself--the jewel in the entire property.

High School Musical, Vancouver

Thanks to my sister-in-law who made all the arrangements, we found ourselves at The Center, one of the newest Vancouver Theaters, to take in a stage performance of High School Musical. It was another chore, I thought, one of those sacrifices that had to be done to keep the kids happy but, boy, was I wrong!

This production, which is in town for only a week, was extremely well-staged. The cast was perfect--even better than the hit Disney movie. There were wonderful songs that weren't in the original soundtrack and add-on characters that made the whole thing less caricature-ish.

Not to mention that the lead actor, the Troy character, was dang good looking. There was excess testosterone floating on that stage; he was infinitely male compared to Zac Ephron who kinda looks too pretty for me (sorry, Ephron fans). His body was well-cut; he was tall; had a strong square jaw; and could sing and dance like nobody's business. The Gabriella character was also two thumbs up in terms of looks and talent. I sat there thinking, where on earth do they find kids with so much talent--they were a powerhouse of artistry. These are the ones who should appear on American idol!

The final segment had a kissing scene, which the entire 2 1/2 hour musical was leading up to anyway, and so there was an extended collective sigh from the oh-so-thrilled audience when it finally happened. And from out of nowhere, Mouse, my little six-year-old, groaned, "Yuck! Gross!"

Parlez-vous Francais?

My most dreaded day finally came and, thankfully, went--the day when I had to sit for the French language proficiency exam required for graduate students. What a relief! And no, i didn't perish; I lived to tell. And no, it didn't take five hours as rumored; I finished it in an hour and a half with my dignity in tact. Whew!

The night before, I couldn't sleep because I imagined stacks of Flaubert texts, or maybe Proust, or Hugo, or even Alexandre Dumas, being served up to me cold and raw for translation into English by some strict French grammar police.

And so with barely five hours of sleep, I trudged over to the testing center and what do you know, my examiner was a petite, pretty, and pleasant Filipina professor, who insisted on being called, simply, Nikki. I was allowed to bring in a dictionary--duh! So I was in the woods but not comepletely lost. The latest edition Collin's French-English dictionary served as my compass and lifeline.

I was surprised to be handed over a mere two-page exam sheet and was I was leaping and bounding into the air with joy and gratitude (but of course, I didn't--couldn't!). All those acrobatics were performed in my brain for issues of propriety and poise.

There were three texts that had to be translated: An excerpt for Albert Camus' L'Etranger, a poem called Le Bonheur by Paul Fort, and finally another poem, Dejeuner du Matin by Jacques Prevert. I fell in love with this last poem and I'm posting the text here with my translation. I still don't know whether I passed or not but I stepped out of that room awestruck by this poem.

"Déjeuner du matin"
by Jacques Prévert

Il a mis le café Dans la tasse

Il a mis le lait Dans la tasse de café

Il a mis le sucre Dans le café au lait

Avec la petite cuiller Il a tourné

Il a bu le café au laitEt il a reposé la tasse

Sans me parler

Il a allumé Une cigarette

Il a fait des ronds Avec la fumée

Il a mis les cendres Dans le cendrier

Sans me parler Sans me regarder

Il s'est levé

Il a mis Son chapeau sur sa tête

Il a mis son manteau de pluie

Parce qu'il pleuvait

Et il est parti

Sous la pluie

Sans une parole

Sans me regarder

Et moi j'ai pris

Ma tête dans ma main Et j'ai pleuré.

Translation:

"Having Breakfast"

He put the coffe in the cup

he put the milk in the cup with the coffee

he put the sugar in the coffee with milk

with a teaspoon he mixed it

he drank the coffee with milk and set down the cup

without talking to me.

He lit a cigarette

he blew smoke rings

he put the ashes on the ashtray

without talking to me

without looking at me

He stood up

he put his hat on his head

he put on his raincaot

because it was raining

and then he left

under the rain

without a word

without looking at me

And me, I took

my head in my hand and I cried.

Powerful but in a subtle way; emotion-packed but in a quiet way!

Monsieur Batignole

At French class today, we watched an award-winning French film called Monsieur Batignole. It was about a French butcher, who, during World War II, found himself in the aide of Jewish children seeking sanctuary from German persecution.

It had subtitles, otherwise I wouldn't have made heads nor tails of it. Spoken French sounds nothing like the slooooow French we learn in class; in real life, well, in this case the movies, spoken French sounds like rapid fire from full auto high-powered weapons of mass destruction.

It was a wonderful movie: heart-warming and funny. But what struck me most was the politics of the husband-wife relationship of Mr. and Mrs. Batignole. The movie was a window into the dynamics of French family life--at once educational and amusing.

Poetry Night

Last night, a group of a dozen or so women--yes, writers; but non-poets--gathered together for an evening of poetry reading. It all started as a hang-over, if you will, from a very moving poetry reading session by full-fledged poets at the Alliance Francaise. Heavily inspired, the same women who were at that Alliance soiree decided to stage one of their own, presided by one of Manila's most-awarded poets, Mr. Rayvi Sunico, himself.

The setting was the chinoise moderne house of one of our writers, MK, who is ever the gracious hostess, and who has elevated entertaining to an art; the delicious pica-pica buffet was set up by Bizu; and the floral arrangements were by our beloved Vanni. Of course, the artistic proceedings were fueled by good wine and a very potent home-made margarita granita--there's never a party without these elements, after all.

But the main character of that evening was the art of the written word. Poems by famous wordsmiths--from as early as the 9th century A.D. Japanese poets, to Ogden Nash, to Rainer Maria Rilke, to Maya Angelou, and to our very own Rayvi Sunico--blew everyone away. The power of such carefully crafted lines--sparing in words but bursting with images--deliver the insight straight into the soul of the listener.

I never really cared much for poetry, simply because I am ill-equipped to understand it. It seems to me--a collection of several images manipulated to produce the desired insight--such an intellectually sophisticated art form. But when I sit and clear my mind and really listen to a poem spoken with passion, I find that it moves me, taking me places inside myself I might have reached before but never really noticed.

A Triumph for Maverick

I had an earlier post on what was then Maverick's upcoming exhibit, Scandalosa. And it read: "Watch out for the art exhibit, Scandalosa, on Saturday, April 19, 2008 at Cafe SaGuijo on Guijo St., San Antonio Village, Makati.

Three female twenty-something artists decided to get together and lend a voice to their very own Millennial Generation (those born between 1980 and 2000). This privileged, gifted, and creative, yet at times confused and tragic generation has grown up amidst the money and luxury afforded by their dotcom billionaire environment, the chaos of the internet, globalization, the proliferation of mind-altering substances, the general acceptability of boozing, drugging and alternative styles of partying, and the brazen expression and brave exploration of their sexuality.

Although many millennial babies have made it very big in this world because of the options that weren't available to baby boomers and yuppies, there are sad stories to be told. The abundance of choices that confront them, the permissiveness of their society, the absence of old-school restraints have sent many spiralling into self-destruction.

These are the collateral damages of such a lifestyle; many, too painful to chronicle. All we have to do is look at Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Kirsten Dunst, Amy Winehouse, and Paris Hilton, plus in our very own backyard, the now infamous Gucci Gang.

These three artists: Tara Almario, showcasing Lomography (or Low Photography, an avant garde concept of photography using low lights and slow motion techniques); Francesca Ayala, showcasing abstract and realist paintings; and Kate Santos showcasing art installations of found objects; aim to show that amidst the plenty and the privilege their generation enjoys there must exist measures of accountability and responsibility; the defining theme of their work being
"You are only as good as what you did last night."

I am happy to report that it was, indeed, a run-away success. I guess Maverick's in-your-face paintings on drunkenness, drugging, bulimia, self-harm, and experimental sex; Tara's photography on dissimulated scenes of hard partying; and Kate's Bisyo Buffet of white washed tables showcasing mind-altering substances and party paraphernalia, resonated with the twenty-somethings who flocked to Saguijo last night.

I had a lot of misgivings when Maverick broached the idea and theme of the project, which multiplied exponentially when I had first glimpsed her paintings. Amoral and disturbing were the words I used to describe them to which she replied, "Exactly, I want the shock value. These issues shouldn't be swept under the carpet anymore." She was right and from last night's show of hands, many others probably think so too. She sold half of her paintings at opening night.

The exhibit is ongoing. Please drop in.