Sometime ago I escaped the city and hied off to Sagada. There I met Rocky, smoking some weed, squatting on a sidewalk. He agreed to a couple of photos, jested that I stole his soul. I owe the guy—I promised to send photos of Sagada, but unfortunately I lost the snail-mail address that he wrote on tiny piece of paper. If any of you know him, do drop me a line where I can send his photos. Thank you, Rocky, and thank you to whoever helps.
Remember that b&W challenge that hit FB sometime ago? Here’s mine —
The lucky bum that I am, I got invited to a private beach, close to undeveloped, and where local fishermen still fish the traditional way–fully manual. They set out in un-motorized boats, cast their nets, wait for a couple of hours, and in full bayanihan fashion, all the men–even young boys–help tow everything back to shore. I felt so bad seeing that they caught a whole damn lot of seaweed–not the edible kind–and only two fish. Not for long, though. The fisherfolk were so high spirited that when they saw me shooting, they even joked about having exposure on Facebook!
This is the day’s catch, and all the trouble it took! These babies must be worth their weight in gold.
I have to take a selfie. I have to take a selfie. I have to take a selfie.
Those words echoed in my head as reality sunk in: I have just said Yes to a group show that specifically said
SELFIE.
Pretty obvious by now that I don’t indulge in the thing, except for strange reasons–like falling off the bed, waking up with a gash near the temple that I could not properly see with a mirror. Yes, I took a selfie to see how big that ugly wound was, becasue I just might need to haul my puny *ss to the ER for stitches. But I digress.
Back to the selfie–I seriously felt I ahve never worked so hard in my life, all because I dislike 1. having my picture taken, 2. posting pjhotos of me, and 3. I am not exactly a fan of the whole selfie thing. And here I am exhibitng my face?
The little project evolved into a philosphical thing–if I am to display my friggin’ face in a show anyway, might as well fo all the way, and make that a poster of what I am about, what I stand for, and what I value most.
Done. And I must thank the organizers of Bloom (Works by Women) not for being kind enough to invite me every year for the past four-five years, but this time for shaking me out of my comfort zone.
After almost two years of almost not touching equipment, I’m back. Of course it is tempting to say “with a vengeance,” but then that means shooting all the time. Maybe I would, yes?
Saturday found me in Binondo, with a historical tour by a good friend and co Iyas fellow, Jeffrey Yap. The guy doesn’t do it for the money–he’s just so passionate about Manila that he does it for free. The tour cost P580, but it included eight foodstops, and by the fifth or sixth, most of us were just taking little bits for the taste of it, and those with enough fortitude in hauling food brought home probably enough for the next day’s meal.
Oh, he gave each of us a Mark Twain book, too!
Meeting place: Binondo church
Jeffrey (leftmost) gives a brief lecture on Binondo history and what to expect from the tour.
Mirror selfie, with Jeff & darn good friend Louise.
Crime Partner P and I took off for a drive, not much on the agenda other than, well, to drive. Or get out of Metro Manila even for just a day, and preferably, meet the sea. I wasn’t really geared to shoot, and all I brought was a Leica D-Lux 5. No monsters, this time. Turns out this toy is sort of a tiny monster, nonetheless. Heehee.
One of what felt like a hundred hairpins.
No idea what these are exactly, but they were on the entrance to the Pawikan conservation thing. By the way, The three baby pawikans were in this tiny enclosure, covered with a net. I simply did not have the heart to take thier photos. (Okay, maybe I should be a photo journalist. LOL)
Farmers, after puttng the dried grains back in the sacks.
Crime Partner P — probably comtemplating that we nearly got stuck in the sand. (Yeah, we drove our car sorta too close to the sea. heh heh)
Forget the white sand; I’d much rather be here than Boracay!
Like all good things, even a perfect day must come to an end. But what a farewell display!
The other day I was driving home in rainy-Friday traffic and listening to Cynthia Alexander’s Walk Down the Road album. There was a deep sadness to it, sadness of a happy kind if ever there is such. It’s probably not accurate to say that it is the musician I miss–we were never the kind of BFFs who chat on the phone or meet up for lunch or coffee; it’s more like I see her on her gigs and she drops by our table for a little chat, and of course there’s the annual Bloom exhibit. While I love her music, I can always listen to all her albums and it’s so easy to just watch her on Youtube.
So what do I miss, exactly?
at 19 East, the send-off series
It’s a period of time, in my life. A time that I wouldn’t exactly want to go through all over again but it was one when silver linings shone through with such intensity that the dark clouds were nearly eclipsed. It was a time when old friends vanished precisely when I needed them most, a time when there was trouble in practically all fronts. And this was the time when a friend stood by me, kept me sane, kept me company. A friend who endured and never complained about the obnoxious other “friends” that I sometimes brought. And we went to Cynthia’s gigs. Never mind that she lives about fifty kilometers away from Conspi. Cynthia’s gigs were practically the only thing that could make her travel that far, and back, in the wee hours of the morning.
It’s the warmth of Cynthia, who never treated us like the bug-eyed fans that we were. It’s her interaction with the band, never acting like she’s the star of the show. It’s Mlou’s multi instrument stunt. It’s CJ Wasu’s tablas. It’s Cynthia’s almost-shy way of acknowledging your presence even in a packed Conspi, her reprimands of my smoking, our hesitation to order sisig or anything non-vegetarian and the silly fear that the smell of a pig’s face on a sizzling plate might cause her to faint. Cynthia, if ever you read this, apologies, but that gave us a good laugh.
I can only wish her all the best, and thank her for the huge part her gigs and music played in the bonds of friendship formed. As for my friend, I’m sure I’ll see her, maybe in gigs down south this time.
As part of the Tanghalang Pilipino’s retrospective of plays written by Tony Perez, he and I did a joint exhibit at the Little Theatre Lobby of the CCP. The festival lasted from 30 September to 23 October, and to my biggest chagrin, I was away on location shoot the entire time! I’m sharing it, anyway. Unfortunately, I don’t have photographs of the paintings by Tony Perez.
About the Exhibit
Antonio Benjamin Silva Perez: Novelist, poet, playwright, painter and teacher. How does one document someone whose work gets done mostly inside his head? There, the challenge lurks, skulking in utmost patience, until it lunges and threatens to fling one to despair: as a writer dreads that blank piece of paper, so does a photographer feel the terror of a blank wall waiting to be filled with images she takes. As a poet wrestles with her very marrow to produce a line of verse, so does a photographer struggle to capture an image that has in it the harmony and dissonance, the light and the darkness, the yin and the yang.
Or, as Tony Perez would put it, the Eros and the Thanatos. Only after such misery does the Muse relent, and be it poem or photo, the images come. Then, and only then, is the challenge met. Hopefully.
*Photos chosen from over two hundred, taken over a period of nineteen months.
The quest proceeded quite smoothly, with most of the “spirits” agreeing to “move on,” while the ghost of a La Sallian brother has assigned himself as caretaker of the chapel. I was expecting, or at least ready, for some “irregularities,” like perhaps capturing some images of spirits in the shots. Other than the orbs, there was none. As far as I can tell anyway.
After the quest, Perez gave a short lecture on psychology in one of the classrooms at the main building. And that was when my perfectly functioning gear — I simultaneously shot with a 5D and a 30D, handheld, natural light — began getting trippy. Initially, I couldn’t get my meter readings right, and that was quite annoying, because the shoot at the dark chapel during the quest was far more difficult and yet I encountered no major hitches. But here inside a bright classroom?
Anyway, when I finally viewed the post-Quest photos, I kind of understood why. Well, not really. But maybe those colored bands and pillars of light messed with my settings. Or gear. Whatever. 
07 February marked the opening of “The Possessed,” a one-man exhibit of painter Poch Naval, at 8lanc Gallery, Salcedo-Makati. The artist “played with a historical document (by Pigafetta!), enlarged some words until until another story can be made out.” The concept sounded deceptively simple, yet looking at the works, there was nothing simple about it; the series was a mind-bender (or mind f**ker, if you will). Until then, I never realized how difficult it would be to look at a drawing, not on a blank canvas, but superimposed on prints. Concentrate on lines of words, or paint? I still have no answer, other than to look at it long enough, see what comes out, and walk away a lot richer for it.
8lanc Gallery is at 107, H.V.dela Costa St., Salcedo Village, Makati.
H Photography 