A Woman, Unchained*

Just as wars have been waged continuously in the history of mankind, abuses of women have been rampant in all races around the world. Even though , it is a woman’s hand that rocks the cradle, another chain binds the other.

I have personally witnessed different forms of abuse suffered stoically by women. I saw a woman whose voice is not heard by her own husband, a woman betrayed by her husband for a prostitute, and a woman whose tears flow at night as she suffers the body pains given to her husband because of an unfounded jealousy.

I know of a pregnant woman whose marriage she decided to end to protect her child from an abusive junkie, whose love she had blindly trusted.

I saw a girl abused by her own grandfather, who grew into an aloof woman whose pains she carefully hid inside. I know of an orphaned girl whose innocence was shattered by her own uncle.

I saw another girl who is tortured and belittled by her own mother.

These are just a few of the abuses women had suffered. However, it is not the form of abuse that shackled these women for life. It is the self-belief that they deserve the anguish. For if one has suffered such torment, one is bound to believe they deserve it.

Photo by Joel R. Locaylocay

And so this work of art is dedicated to ALL WOMEN who decided to free themselves from the crippling abuse and believe steadfastly that they, too, deserve the fullness of life.

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This work of art is the project I had submitted during the culmination exhibit in my art class, on July 9, 2011. It was done on acrylic on a 24 cm  x 30 cm  triple gesso canvas. Surprisingly, this painting had caught the eye of the grandfather of my classmate, Stian. 

*The title of the painting was given by Mark Gary, the renowned film maker of Sandalang Bahay and Hubad. 

I miss this painting, spent several days on this. Thanks to Pareng Jotay for taking a photo of this woman before the exhibit. A wonderful piece of art, now a memory I would keep close to my heart (it has rhymed!).

The Strobist Next Door

Growing up in a testosterone-laden household impressed upon me  man’s propensity to self-conceit. Meeting Pareng Jotay (as I fondly call him) refreshed and ultimately changed my views on men. In his self-effacing manner, he showed me that not all men are born chauvinistic and that chivalry is not yet dead.

Hanging out with Jotay for years (not that long actually but seems like decades already) doesn’t make me an expert on who he is. But there are facets in his personality that made him a special gift to his family and friends.

At the forefront of this is his selfless devotion to his wife, Susan, and unwavering support to his parents. Although, he had already hung his own pair of gloves (metaphorically speaking), he jumps to his friends’ defense when needed.

A chemist who knows his chemistry well, it is in art on which he excels (that almost rhymes!). A poet and a photographer, he has his own brand of art uncommon to these days. His poetry bespeaks the style of the olden times, where poetry is a fruit of labor and not just a product of nonsensical lines (another rhyme!).

I understand perfectly well Jotay’s aversion towards fashion photography and events. For one, his photos show a lot of depth on the subject’s soul most fashion photos lack. The bustle associated with events such as weddings creates an  imbalance on an artist’s equilibrium, especially if one’s style relies on soulful images.

Speaking in the perspective of a fellow artist, his works had greatly improved through the years. As a friend, I am very proud that he has found a niche in this world. Just like anyone, the battles he had to wage may left him scarred.

But it is his battle-scarred self that made him a loving husband, a dutiful son, and a best friend.

And I couldn’t ask for more. Thank you, P’re.

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Making a portrait is one of my goals when I embark into this journey. The artworks above traced my earliest attempts to my recent work on portrait makings. In particular, the recent portrait was made while Jotay was sitting for me.

Concretizing Abstract

Mama taught me before to use pencils to draw. Whatever mistakes I would make, I could easily remove it with an eraser. When I discovered sign pens in high school, I overlaid my pencil-drawings with ink. Ballpoint pens are good tool for drawing because you can’t always leave to the house without it. Only, once you commit a mistake, you have to find ways to save your work or start all over again with a clean paper.

Inks have found niche in Chinese and Japanese art, specifically in calligraphy. They used brushes and specialized applicators such as bamboo quills. The ink they used are not the same type we used on pens. It is a special type of ink, sold in National Bookstore or Metro as Chinese ink.

Considering the drill my mother taught me, ink-drawing is a challenge to me. When I had dabbled on this in my art class, my most likely theme is abstract. I can just whisk an ink here and there using the bamboo quills. Unfortunately, I have never been a fan of abstract drawing.

I have great respect for abstract artists but my obsessive-compulsive side just refused to lose control. To my credit, I did try and here are the results.

A poor attempt of abstracting volcanic eruption that looks like a party at the tip of the crater instead.

Or something that lies in the chemistry realm, abstracting chemists. Unfortunately, they look more like ghosts to me.

Indeed, I am not good with harmonizing lines to generate abstract beauty. But before, I left my art class that night, I finally came up with this.

Not bad after how many takes I made. 

Frolicking with Pastel

Last summer, I had a chance to make art in pastels: one in pastel chalk and another in oil pastel. I enjoyed using both media, though I prefer the former.

Pastel chalk is made from pigments mixed with starch as a binder. Once applied on  paper, it can be easily spread using your finger or a piece of cellulosic fiber (aka tissue paper). However, this generates a lot of dust that may irritate your lungs. More, it needs a paper with rough surface to hold the pigment. Usually a fixative is used, like a hair spray, to protect the colors and preserve the art piece. You don’t want to wake up one day to find your pastel portrait gone. Afterall, you don’t live in Hogwarts where pictures move and gallivant around.

Photo by Joel R. Locaylocay

Oil pastel, on the other hand, is made of pigments mixed with oil or wax as binder. Since it gives vibrant colors, white papers are suggested to be used. Unlike pastel chalk, its colors stick to the paper. It does not need a fixative but it needs a cover like a glass to prevent accumulation of dust. Personally, I had a hard time working on this medium. Since it dries so fast, I cannot spread the pigments as well as the pastel chalks.

Just as there are many ways to cook a chicken, pastels are another tool to express one’s artistic nature. A good tool for those who are intimidated with paints and brushes. You can used pastels from still-life to portrait. Don’t forget the precautions to preserve your work. You don’t want you work to disappear and leave you with a paper.

That is, if you are not using a page of Tom Riddle’s diary.

Men and their Cocks

(This post is not of delicate nature but rather explores my personal experience, growing up in a household where men participate in cockfighting.)


I grew up in a household of men, with 3 brothers all grown up, male cousins and Dad. There was a time when it was only me and my mother who were the girls. Even our dogs were male and yes, my Dad’s prized roosters (or gamecocks, as known).

Every morning, I woke up to the sounds of the roosters, heralding the day. My brother would remove them from their cages and place them on-field to bathe in the sun and do their ground-scratching exercise. I used to tag along with my other brothers during feeding time. I was in-charge of lugging around the drinking water.
There were activities surrounding the growing of roosters that fascinated me (in a male-dominated household, it’s no wonder why I want to be in).

• My brothers used to remove the comb and wattles and feed them to the rooster itself. They explained that such flesh can increase the stamina of the bird.
  
• When a derby is coming up, the roosters were given fighting exercise during mornings and afternoons. Little gloves were placed on their spur (the sharp part of the back of the rooster’s feet) as to prevent injuring the other roosters. This will be replaced with a sharp blade during a real fight.
  
• Before the fighting exercise begins, my brothers would prime the roosters by holding their tail feathers and facing them to each other. It must be instinct or pure male vanity/pride but these fighters are ready to fly and scratch each other.

On the day of the derby, the men in the family woke up before dawn and off to the site of the fight. They would be gone the whole day. Mama and I were left to man the household but we were prohibited to sweep the floor as it swept the good luck away. At the end of the day, they would return bringing the winning fighters and dead roosters as part of the prize. Whoever wins in the cockfight gets to take home the dead rooster for food. By the way, rooster’s flesh is hard. It would be difficult to chew on it but its soup is good.

My Dad stopped joining derbies when our family grew. As my brothers got married, more female were added to the household. It was becoming difficult for Dad to join a derby so it won’t fall on anyone’s period. It’s bad luck, they say. Lucky for me, though, or I would end up as San Pedro at the cockfight arena.

Letting Go

Showing my artworks has always been a challenge to me. One, a tactless venomous tongue will simply lash out at my work. Duplicitous praises here and there may also come by. An indifferent shrug or being compared to another admirable individual whom I thought is better than me , can crush my spirit so fast.

Photo by Joel R. Locaylocay

Contrary to what most people think, I also have my own insecurities. At times, it shackled me and left me immobile for quite some time. My wise brain (modesty aside) has incessantly drummed me on the benefits of living at the moment and leading a devil-may-care attitude. It has its attractions.

However, letting go is never easy when one tried so hard to bring a semblance of control over a life twisted by fate.

But there comes a time that one has to let go if that is the only way to live.

For an introvert like me, walking and introducing myself to a bunch of artists is a huge step for me. But it pales in comparison when I have to show my artworks and get critiques from them. Several times, I experienced a mental block as to what to draw, fearing I may be not up to the challenge.

It was when we started using colors in class that I began to let loose. I stopped thinking on color combinations and just let my hands do the works. Then I started to see flowing lines and began using colors that I don’t normally find attractive before.

Photo by Joel R. Locaylocay

We have different ways on showing how to  let go. Mine, by creating beauty on canvas, colors and lines. But the objective never changes. We let go so we can experience life to the fullest.

A Paradigm Shift

If there is one thing I missed about high school, it would be the array of black boards serving as my canvas where I could display my art. I would be assigned to update blackboards for any announcements, birthday greetings, and events along with designing them. Since technology at that time was not as advanced as now (we still used the disk-operating system that time), colored chalks were  my medium.

Though such activities ate a lot of my time and would cause me to come home beyond my curfew (and earned Lolita’s ire), it was my fondest memory of high school.

It was in college when I decided to shift my focus to chemistry. It was not a matter of losing interest. It was a case of you-made-the-choice-face-the-consequences kind of thing. I realized the boards in the university weren’t at  my disposal obviously. Since I was on a tight budget, I cannot afford a sketchpad or any art materials. Plus, one cannot really excel or even pass chemistry with conflict of priorities. It is always chemistry or art. I chose the former.

I hid and sealed my art in a box.

Now, I decided to revisit my old interest.

I have blackboards I can use. But I decided to start with a paper and a graphite pencil. I understood I would be rusty from years of ‘inertness’. Indeed, my initial works were like of a child. However, I persist (with a Cheerio at my side) and on one night, alone in my room, I came up with a good drawing of a screw driver (Not a typical core-shaker, I know).


Damn, I’m screwed. I still have it.

After all.