Art Affirmation

We all need affirmations; positive declarations from family and friends. If I'll be scientific about these, affirmations are like catalysts, providing us another perspective so we can make decisions over something we are ambivalent about, muster convictions over a choice we made or simply propel ourselves out of our gloomy nook and into the light of day.

 My life is like a roller-coaster ride that I often find myself overwhelmed and dreading the next turn. I also need my own dose of affirmations. But I cannot rely solely on my family and friends for each dose. I need to have my own source; that when the coaster makes the upturn climb, I have something to hold onto as it takes another breathtaking plunge.

Now as I turned into another year, I am grateful that my art provides me this much-needed affirmation and a reminder at the same time, that I may have failed at some point in my life but I'd never be a one-trick pony.

And now let me share an affirmation I learned from my favorite TV series Sex and the City:

Happy birthday.

The Foolish Amba and Clever Pong

Amba

Once there were two friends named Amba and Pong. A monkey, Amba was shrewd and self-centered. a humble turtle, Pong looked after the Amba and himself. Both of them lived beside a river, in a forest.

One night, a storm hit their place. The river surged and a lot of trees fell down. The following morning, the storm had left and Pong looked around for food. He found a banana tree floating on the river, with some fruits still hanging on it. Hit by an idea, he grabbed the whole tree and searched for Amba.

Amba was lounging in one of the trees in the forest. He was waiting for Pong to bring him breakfast. He was whistling tunelessly, while enjoying the after scent of the storm.

"Amba! Look what I found!" called out Pong.

Amba loped his arm on a branch and dangled himself. "What is it?" he asked excitedly.

Down the Memory Lane

Aside from dosing off while getting inked, my tattoo reminded me of something else: hiding out in my apartment, went out only to buy food. I know a lot of people get bored (or go crazy) when confined inside the room for a day (how much more if it's a week) but the experience had given me a good amount of time to practice my sketches ... and I made a lot!

In fact, I am sharing some of the sketches I made. These are famous celebrities. Warning to the fans! In the event that you feel these sketches haven't truly represented your idols, I claim to be in the early stage of my art career. You can't fault a newbie. That would be a complete injustice. :)

Drawn from the Pensieve*

One day, I finally took the chance to draw a human figure from memory. No models - animated or not - in front. It took careful imagination and thoughtful analysis to come up with one in correct proportions. Of course, thanks to my friend, Jotay, who kindly advised me if my human appears disproportionate.

It would be a real treat if you can also drop your comments about the sketch above. Ciao!
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*pensieve - a seemingly combination of the words 'pensive' and 'sieve';  refers to an object used to sort out and reflect memories drawn from the mind, first appeared in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Burning in the Dark

9'' x 12"  acrylic on water color paper

I am interested to hear your thoughts. Kindly leave your comments on the box below. Thanks. :)

Wishes On Copper

For the past weeks, I have been struggling on getting inspired. I felt that the muse who has driven me to create had finally left the building. Much as I want to 'let loose' or 'let art unfold before me', the results would always be a bizarre combinations of lines and colors, which I might on as abstract. But who am I kidding? Abstract isn't just a mixture of colors and lines. There should be harmony that emulsifies those two. 

One Sunday, I passed by the paints section of National Bookstore and saw tubes of copper paint. Interesting. That color would look good on a man's figure. Think..copper-skinned man. Yum! So, I bought a tube. Then beside it, I saw a bronze paint! Think...a bronze-skinned man. Somebody turned on the AC! I included the bronze paint in my cart and passed the books of Fifty Shades of...I could make my own version of it one day. Inspiration..don't leave me yet!

Excited with my find, I went straight to work. I drew a man's figure on a watercolor paper. However, the paints don't seem to  work well with the paper. Let's talk about affinity and polarity. They just don't stick. Yeah, I was disheartened and set them aside for awhile.

Last weekend, I decided to get my hands paint-dirty. My plan was to get to know the paints. I primed the paper with titanium white (no time for a gesso) and applied the copper on it afterwards. The sun came out...it's working! I continued covering the whole paper with copper and observed how it blends. Then I made simple balloon drawings, using medium yellow. Mars black did the shadows. 

The results..Ta da!

This weekend, I'll try out the bronze paint. Who knows, I might be able to get my own version of Fifty Shades with my man, Pete. 

Time Has Been Blissfully Swift

When I was a kid (and I don't think it's just me), I thought teachers are also cloaked with infallibility just like the Pope. A teacher's word is a dogma, or so I thought. Then I became a teacher. I had series of mishaps, starting from falling from a flight of stairs to falling from a platform in front of the class. There are times when I am unable to answer my student's questions or I confused lessons. In spite of these, I was able to bounce back by humbly accepting my mistakes and correcting them. Much to my surprise, students appreciate such humility.

Indeed, teachers are not infallible.

Yesterday, my students were taking a quiz and a some lines came to my mind that best described how I felt the other day. Just so to capture it, and not to forget it, I quickly grabbed my laptop and typed as quickly as I could so the lines won't disappear and get back fast to my students who were taking a quiz.

Unfortunately, one of the students posed a question if what is flashed onscreen is included in the quiz. Then I realized that my laptop was connected to an LCD projector. And my poem is right there, onscreen, and all my feelings exposed for my students to read. The funny part there is I forgot the shorthand command to hide the screen. The whole class was teasing and curious to read more of the poem. I just smiled at them and asked them to get back to their quiz.

Next to my art, poetry is like a therapeutic salve for me. It provided an outlet to free those overwhelming emotions that may drown me into sorrows. I didn't have a good day two days ago. Thanks to my friend, Ising, I was able to bounce back. Now, the poem is my way to put closure to that and move on.

To my curious students, here is the complete poem:

Time has been blissfully swift

It has left its wounds

Tarnishing the gifts it brought.

The pain of the day has left its mark

To this already scarred spirit;

The night now witnessed the wear

On this wanderer’s being.

The only charm in this bitter pill

That time has been blissfully swift.

Gash from the Past

Each time I see a little child crying or throwing a tantrum, I often wonder what he/she turns out into after 10 years or so.When a mother humiliates her child in public physically or verbally, it gives me a sense of foreboding of what a parent this child will become.

I grew up fast. I was still a kindergarten but I know a boy can fall in love with a girl. I understand that a girl has to maintain a sense of propriety and a boy should not cross such boundary. My high school friends (and I have only a few) would often ask me what college is about when I haven't been there myself, just like them. I always have this air of maturity beyond my age, accompanied by a sense of weirdness and aloofness.

Oftentimes, I found myself outside looking in, that I decided to venture into a journey of self-instrospection. In this journey, I came across a lot of books and one of these is written by a clinical psychologist Oliver James entitled They F*** You Up How to Survive Family Life. It detailed, complete with examples, how a damaged childhood can affect the behavior and perspective of an adult. The younger the child endured an abuse, the more difficult a child can recover from such that he/she tends to repress the emotional pains. However, like an overflowing dam, the repressed emotions have to surge out in the form of anger, insecurities, skewed perspectives, misplaced values and such.

Though fictional, let me cite one of my favorite TV series Dexter as an example. Dexter Morgan is a Miami Police blood spatter pattern analyst. Unfortunately, he is also a serial killer and his need to kill is referred as his dark passenger. This need can be traced back when he was 3 years and found in a pool of his mother's blood, after watching his mother's violent murder.

It may be fictional but fiction has factual basis.

Fresh pains can be one of the outlets of these repressed emotions. It is like a new open wound over old scars and there you can see a tiny child peeking from the past, in the hope of being seen, comforted in her grief and reassured that there is a place for her in your present and future.

Uninspired

The Muse has deserted me
While I toil inside a box
With blood as my sweat
My inspiration is now drained.

Now as I stand in the open air
Searching inside for that beat
Yet the spark has now waned
The Muse has deserted me.

Welcoming Daybreak

Stygian curtain yawned

Vanishing spectre of man

To the wretched hearth

A sliver of light

Bursting vermillion, carmine

In a blue montage

Frightful incubus

Scorched by heat, gone into smoke

A new dawn at hand

"Minda"-nian Adventure

My good ol' friend, Minda, came to Cebu City last month and invited me to stay overnight in one of the posh local hotels. Along with her colleagues, I joined her for dinner.

One of the perks of being Minda's friend, aside from meeting a showbiz personality out of the blue, is to be looped into an adventure. And with Minda's adventures, you just can't say no, because you don't have time to say so. For all you know, you're right in the smack of it.

When we were at the basement parking lot of the hotel, Minda was babbling about leaving me in her room while she attend to a meeting to polish the plans the following day. Amidst Minda's babbling, we turned the wrong way and ended up in the hotel's KTV bar. If I were to believe in omens, that should be the sign.

We were directed to the elevator that would bring us to floor where Minda's meeting will be held. Unfortunately, we ended up to another parking lot; this time, with a scarce number of automobiles. Since, that was in a nearby floor to where Minda planned to go, we decided to try the fire exit.

Seeing the almost vacant parking lot, Minda jokingly recalled those horror movies she participated in and went straight to the door marked EXIT. And this is where the adventures started.

A Weekend Mix

Most of my works were mostly done by charcoal, watercolor, and acrylic. I hadn't done anything that mixes different media. Inspired by an Indian artist, Ajay De whom I have read over a copy of Reader's Digest, I decided to use acrylic paints and charcoal in my piece.

I was thinking of what could be my possible subject when it dawned on me that I haven't made a follow-up on my post A Preview to Nude Art. This would also be an opportunity for me to practice on my figure drawing, particularly on my proportion problem. 

It helps that a lot of fine art nude photography websites are available today. I scouted for my subject that I could draw and incorporate a part of  my concept in it. I decided to choose a photo entitled Apples by Imants Silkans (Kindly click on the name to direct you to the website.) done in black and white.

During the whole weekend, I labored on this piece. The best part was doing the charcoal. Before, I used a torchon or a spreader to disperse the charcoal and create interesting shadows. Now, I used my hands! They got dirty; like charcoal powders were found underneath my nails but it was so much fun! When using hands, powderize first the charcoal before applying and spreading it on paper.

And now, here it is:

A Phantom in my Slumber

As each element was added, a piece of me was taken as well. Yet, when I looked at the progress I made and now, its finished look, I feel happy and light. Something that I would carry with me as I start another week and face another challenges at work.

Mangoes for A Client

Months ago, a woman saw my portfolio of paintings and sketches. I can see that she was pleased that she asked me to do a still-life painting of a mango fruit. She planned to hang the piece in her dining room. I agreed. She had some specifications, though.

One, there should be leaves. Done.

Two, it should be a yellow mango. (Yellow is her favorite color, next to brown.) Well, one of the mangoes is yellow. Plus, the green tinge of the other two can be attributed to shadows and reflections.

Three, there should be water droplets. Now, I'll be damned. I missed this lesson in my art class.

So, I presented her this painting last weekend.

My client looked at it closely. She was silent for awhile; her husband piped in that they looked like sour mangoes. I told him that it was just the shadows.

Then, the woman asked for the water droplets. I told her I missed learning that in class and I don't want to ruin my shadows on my mangoes (which I have laboriously figured out! accompanied with dramatic flick of hands!). And as a consolation, if she's still interested to get my services, the water droplets will soon follow.  

Next she asked, "Why blue? Why not white?" I replied that blue brings out the yellow color. Her favorite."

So the woman said, with no ecstatic babble, "Thank you. I am happy."

And I let out a deep breath. Ha!

That certainly went like an oral examination. But I can afford an argument with her for this woman has been my constant client since I was a kid: MY MOTHER. 

As much as she loves to critique my works, Mama used to display my art at home and showed it off to visitors. Unlike my Dad who describes me like a big star, she keeps it simple and humble. And on her 70th birthday, this piece on mangoes will go, as planned, to our dining room where most people convene, on ordinary and special days.

Happy birthday, Ma. This isn't really a medal or an award. But I am giving you a fruit of what I love most to do. 

Mental Shackles

So many times, we found ourselves shackled by our own fears,
immobilized by dread. The sword of Damocles is hanging above our head. A vitriolic decoction, we swallow the draft that make us see our lack of control.

We feel alone, helpless, like living inside a dank dungeon. No sunlight streaming in. No bright tomorrow to look forward to.

Yet, this terror is in the mind, a susurrant whisper that swells into a shout. It warps our thinking process and disables our motor coordination. If we can silence this, we enable ourselves to act and gain back the control on our lives.

In the process, we realize that the manacles that fettered us from acting is just a figment of our imagination and that all along, the manacles are corroded.

Uncertain

My piece called Inner Passion had generated interesting comments from people. They have seen a number of images out of an abstract piece. One said the piece looked like the sun while another said, it looked like a navel. My three good friends unanimously said, it reminded them of a woman's breast. (and no more on which particular part.) 

These comments inspired me to create another abstract piece. It took me the whole summer to finish this due to  work and other responsibilities. Interestingly, when I started taking its photos for this post, I realized that a variation in its layout may also evoke a different interpretation.

I planned to entitle this as Catharsis. Now, I am no longer certain what its name, as I am overwhelmed on which layout I like more. Maybe, this is the allure of abstract art that have drawn artists. I can now see the freedom it bestows. There is no exact ending. Each line takes you to a different dimension. Each brush stroke unveils a new part of you. 

For a control freak like me, it can be overwhelming but surprisingly, it can be liberating at the same time. 

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Now, I am very much interested on what you think about the piece. Don't worry, I have meager psychology background so I won't be psychoanalyzing your comments. It will be fun, reading your interpretation on the piece at the comment section.  

Coming Back

Boatwrecks at Capusan Beach, Cuyo

Rough seas, strange tides

A tiny dot, green and sand

Strangers around

Bonds formed

Peace and quiet inside

Familiar sights, old sounds

Beaten stuff surround

Warmth missing

Tranquility gone

Home, now undone

I Couldn't Be Her

I am my Mama's girl.

Being her only girl, it is understandable why she kept me close to her side. She was even my playmate, in the absence of neighborhood kids.

While growing up, daughters look up to their mothers. They tried on their mother's clothes, make ups, and shoes. We try to copy our mother's looks. I used to do that myself.

Like for example, this bandanna I drew two years ago. When we travelled long distances before, Mama wore  this to hold her hair. She said, it kept the dust away and you won't bother your seatmate in the bus with a strand straying to their eyes. With no extra fuss, she wrapped it around her head like how Granny Goose does. It looks fine with her. I decided that when I grew up, I would wear one of her silk bandannas.

My first job had me leave home at six in the morning and noticeably, my migraine attacks were becoming frequent. People around surmised that cold early morning air had gone inside my head (I know, it seems illogical but let's leave it at that) while I travel for work. Mama offered me her silk bandanna to protect my head from cold. Funny thing is, when I wore it, I looked like...well...Granny Goose (and though I am a fan of Granny Goose snack foods, I don't want to like her). Carefully, so as not to hurt her feelings, I refused my mother's offer.

Now as a grown-up, I realized that as much as I'd like to, I could never be like my Mama. I couldn't be as patient as her, or as meek. Not because I don't want to be like her but because we come from a different set of experiences at different times. We were two distinct individuals.

The bond that linked me to her for nine months, though severed physically, will continue to hold us together. This will help us transcend our differences. For the rest of my life, I will be her daughter who at times can drive her crazy and she, my mother, who will offer the second mystery of the rosary for my safety and success.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

Inner Passion

Some people are born in the light while some first saw darkness. While people use light to reach their destination, some people grope in the dark, looking for that beacon; to find reason for their mere existence.

Darkness sows fear. The shadows inspire weakness. And the weary traveller latches on the next mortal, sucking them dry like a vampire to its prey.

But the beacon has never been hidden behind the far horizon. It is secreted within the soul. We call this passion.

When given the right amount of time and nurture, the passion inside will burst into life, dispelling the darkness within.

This time, fear no longer holds power. Shadows reveal fellow travellers.

Hold on to that passion, then and do not lose it. Once it has taken root, one does not have to justify his existence. We only have to live the life we are gifted with.

Getting Out of Hand(s)

Things are stressful lately (or as always). For one, the second semester is ending. Exams are to be handed out. Later on, grades will be computed and requirements are to be accomplished for clearance signing.

In addition to that, I need to finish my thesis in time for my  defense in March so I can finally be over and done with this one hurdle in my academic life – my Master’s degree. Perhaps, by then, I can focus on the rest of my life.

Amidst all these deadlines and must-do’s, one can be overwhelmed to the point of breaking down. Fortunately, I got friends who are there to reassure me and ease my high-strung mind. Another ace on my sleeve is my doodling on paper. Lately, I have been sketching hands.

These sketches remind me of what I have learned about letting go; a lesson I keep on repeating like a mantra and hopefully it will be ingrained on me as I lead a less stringent life. (I used a semi-colon, Jack.)

The lesson appears simple but often overlooked especially when one just wants structure; that I can control my life and I am not at the mercy of fate. If chaos reigns, I only have to sort the things I can change from those that I cannot,and let  to go of those things I have no control with and hold on to those that truly matter.

A Summer Rash

Most people believe that summer begins in March or April. But my body begs to disagree. The reappearance of my prickly heat is the harbinger of  hotter days and warmer nights.

Like Christmas, summer has not been my favorite time of the year. For one, school is out so I didn’t have friends to hang out with. I don’t have neighborhood buddies back then (but come to think of it, even now. He he he). Most of the summer days, I played with my nephews and nieces and we ended up fighting.
It didn’t help that I don’t have a job during summer. Plus, this stubborn rashes just keep on visiting me.

However, in a tete`-a-tete´ with one of my students, I realized that the stigma of a particular period in life can be removed by associating them with happy memories.

In my case, I have to affirm that not all my summers were dreary and spent on a tight budget or isolation. At some point, I created precious memories that could bring a smile to my face.

With this thought, heartwarming memories started to string out of my mind just like how Dumbledore magicked his memories into the pensieve or in a vial.

An unexpected back-packing vacation, helping Jotay practice his photography, meeting other artists, shopping for swimwear with Ising and posing in that particular swimwear, sending a birthday card to my crush while meeting a new crush, crossing the sea in a small boat, and going camping under the rain are just a few.

Why did I forget these memories?

Most of the time, I concerned myself with the sad events that took place afterwards. But that is not the point of the exercise. I should look back to these memories oftentimes and savor the light feeling these bring me. Once this happens, I can now bathe myself in the warmth of the summer.

Among these memories, which stood out?

Well, not the birthday card I sent to a boy, signed as Secret Admirer but the memory of lying on the sand, listening to the surf as the water kissed the beach, and looking at the star-laden velvety black sky. It was pure itch-free bliss.

Lumang Simbahan

Mama used to tell me bedtime stories when I was a child. I learned the story of Nativity even before I went to school. One story I could not forget was that of an old haunted church in one of the coastal barrios in Luzon. If one has a copy of a book called Pamana ng Lahi, this story was found there.

Mama called this Lumang Simbahan.

There was an old church, visibly deteriorated through time. No one remembered when the last mass was said. No one frequented this place even to pray. Rumors said that moans and dragging chains were heard when the clock struck six in the evening. Light apparitions were observed at midnight. Parents kept on reminding their children not to gallivant around the churchyard.

So the church stood at the center of the barrio, shunned by the people.

But one day, two lovers entered the church. They knelt in front of the altar and prayed. Their love was forbidden for the young man was a farmer’s son and the young woman was the daughter of an haciendero.

Each bore a dagger for they plan to kill themselves and were hoping to be reunited in the afterlife. When they were about to do the deed, the young man remembered that their bodies would still be separated for they would be buried at different cemeteries, befitting their social status.

So the man dug up a grave for the both of them. And lo! He found a chest, full of gold and silver jewels and even priceless silk. The lovers stared at each other, awed by the discovered treasures. They decided to keep and use them to convince the young woman’s father that the young man is capable of giving her the lifestyle she is accustomed to.

Long story short, the father granted them permission. They were married at the old church – newly renovated paid by the young man. That was one wedding the whole barrio will never forget for the celebration lasted for a week.

Now who owned the treasures before they were discovered? Stories evolved that the chest was hidden by  pirates. To prevent the people from discovering it, they made the old church appear haunted.

I know. I can imagine how shallow such explanation could be but to a five-year-old child, that was one fairy tale, made in the Philippines.

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*haciendero – an owner of large acre of land which has been passed on from generation to generation

Unwanted

Growing up was never easy for me. For one, the social behavior of people have perplexed me to the point of intimidation. Often times, I find myself more of an observer, seeing people -friends and enemies alike- through a looking glass. At those times, words start to string in my head and my thoughts are given shape in the form of poetry, another priceless creation inside my art box.

In the warm darkness of your world, I
Felt your disquietude, an anxious sigh
On your head, you wore a shroud of shame,
Reek of dread to bring a lass into a disgraceful game.
Growing up, you made me feel I am feeble,
Intelligent yet a sloth, so unreliable;
Vaqueros, I fought to win your praise
Exhausted I lost to niños the vaqueros have raised.
You have gone through hell, you said,
Once, you hoped for the Reaper but I came instead,
Unceasing, you have loved me yet you feared
My rejection to your life, so unjustly seared.
A broken sparrow, I could only forgive.