Rogue Magazine 2017

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I S S U E 1 1 4 ———— F E A T U R E S

CONTENTS October 2017

OFF-T YPE : A DESIGN PORTFOLIO

SEASONS IN THE ABYSS

It can be difficult to distinguish oneself in a design industry constantly growing, changing, and imitating itself, but these seven young designers have claimed these spaces as their own. Rogue enters their studios to talk about the process and story behind every product, sketch, and interior.

Oh yes, there will be blood as Rogue presents its first horror anthology, featuring three dark tales of spirits and beasts penned by some of the country’s best screenwriters, fictionists, and horror impresarios: 170 by Yvette Tan, Punching Reynald by Mihk Vergara, and Sanctuary by Eliza Victoria.

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IN LIEU OF FLOWERS

WHEN YOU SEE ME AGAIN IT WON’ T BE ME

For close to three decades, the stylings of British decorator Ronnie Laing introduced beauty to post-war Manila and brought life to the Marcoses’ endless fetes in and out of Malacañang. Jerome Gomez examines the rise and fall of Imelda Marcos’s most sought-after party stylist.

In this room, shadows and soft glows seem strategically placed on the bodies of passersby, the timeless clothes they wear, the doorways they pass through. There is a story behind this— one that Shaira Luna shares in her photographs without having to say a word.

“What are you afraid of?”

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“She’s afraid of

THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DEATHS There are few people who don’t quiver at the thought of death— It Girl Jess Wilson is not one of them. Philbert Dy crafts a horror story right out of the rising social media influencer’s worst nightmares, casting her into a haunted house where all of her deepest fears converge.

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everything,” her sister replied for her. “Are you afraid of me?” the Reaper asked. PHILBERT DY

PHOTOGRAPH BY BJ PASCUAL

THE WIDOW AND NICK JOAQUIN If there was anyone who could have been National Artist Nick Joaquin’s romantic “other half,” it was his longtime companion and drinking buddy, Professor Elena Roco. Lito B. Zulueta traces the beginnings of their relationship, down to the furor their closeness sparked among the 70s culturati.

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CUSTOM DRESS BY ANDREA TETANGCO AT ROYAL MANSION, WACK WACK ROAD, MANDALUYONG

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A voice like falling gravel:

I S S U E 1 1 4 ———— S E C T I O N S

CONTENTS October 2017

AG EN DA

S PAC E

A compendium of X-rated movie posters returns to remind porn connoisseurs that sex sells not by accident, but by design; from idle land used as a holding area for rusting motor parts rises one of the most modern public libraries in the country; Blade Runner 2049 director Denis Villeneuve opens up exploring the mythos of the sci-fi cult classic.

Furniture meets fiction as we take some of the best designs today as the inspiration for five stories of decadence, lust, and danger; Maison & Objet Designer of the Year Tristan Auer creates contemporary and romantic spaces in the iconic Hôtel de Crillon; Caracole’s signature pieces take on global aesthetics for simple and elegant interiors.

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“The movie is the same kind of color palette, but made by another painter. I don’t know how the world will react to that.” DENIS VILLENEUVE

THE EYE

TH E S LA NT

From supersized silhouettes to denser fabrics, far-out explorations of the tried and tested make up this year’s trends for Fall; the men behind Ascot Chang talk about what a keen eye for detail can do for the modern gentleman’s lifestyle; jeweler Paul Syjuco talks Superbowl champions, rock ‘n roll dreams, and revolutions.

Nelson A. Navarro ponders over the irony of Manila’s dizziest fantasies, most recently realized in a grand wedding in Paris at the Opera Garnier; Patrick Paez presents his case for the city of Manila as avant-garde; Lilianna Manahan recounts her return trip to the Czech Republic with two other designers, all there to create glass objet d’art.

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FILM STILL COURTESY OF WARNER BROS.

ON THE COVER

Editor-in-Chief JONTY CRUZ! Executive Editor JEROME GOMEZ!Managing Editor JACS T. SAMPAYAN! Features Editor PHILBERT DY!Style Editor MANO GONZALES Staff Writer EMIL HOFILEÑA!Editorial Assistant PATRICIA CHONG

Photographed by BJ Pascual Styled by Blake Samson Makeup by Anthea Bueno using Laura Mercier Hair by Suyen Salazar Stylist Assisted by Renee Christopher Ultado Makeup Assisted by Luisa Jardinero

ART Art Director FRANCESCA GAMBOA!Junior Designers PIA SAMSON, MARK SANTIAGO! Online Art Director MAGS OCAMPO!Online Junior Art Director ANDREW PANOPIO

Contributing Writers STEVEN CORALDE, LILIANNA MANAHAN, MARIE ANNABELLE MARQUEZ, PAOLO ENRICO MELENDEZ, NELSON A. NAVARRO, PATRICK PAEZ, SAM POTENCIANO, YVETTE TAN, MIHK VERGARA, ELIZA VICTORIA, LITO B. ZULUETA Contributing Photographers & Artists ANDREA BELDUA, GERIC CRUZ, SHAIRA LUNA, RENZO NAVARRO, BJ PASCUAL, SERIOUS STUDIO, JILSON TIU

ERRATUM In our September 2017 issue, the two photos of the 2009 Peninsula Manila siege should have been credited to Nana Buxani and Enrique Soriano for Bloomberg through Getty Images. A photo in our interview with Sec. Dominguez should have been attributed to Veejay Villafranca for Bloomberg through Getty Images. We apologize for these oversights.

Intern GELO DIONORA

PUBLISHING Publisher VICKY MONTENEGRO / [email protected] Associate Publisher ANI A. HILA / [email protected] Senior Advertising Sales Director MINA GARA / [email protected] Account Managers DENISE MAGTOTO, TRICIA QUINTERO Marketing Manager TRIXIE DAWN CABILAN Publishing Assistant MADS TEOTICO / [email protected]

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This issue would not have been possible without the help of KAREN RIMANDO OF LIVING INNOVATIONS, OLIVER XAVIER REYES, MELODY YAO ROBATO AND TRICIA CAISIP OF MOS DESIGN For subscriptions, back issues, bulk orders, and other circulation concerns please contact: Rainier S. Baria (+632) 729-7747 [email protected] ROGUE MAGAZINE IS PUBLISHED MONTHLY, ELEVEN TIMES PER YEAR. THE EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS OF THE MAGAZINE MAKE NO REPRESENTATIONS OR WARRANTIES IN RELATION TO THE ACCURACY OR COMPLETENESS OF THE CONTENTS OF THE ADVERTISEMENTS, PRODUCTS, AND SERVICES ADVERTISED IN THIS EDITION. OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN THIS MAGAZINE ARE SOLELY THOSE OF THE AUTHORS AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF ROGUE MAGAZINE. THIS MAGAZINE IS FULLY PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT, AND NO PART OF THIS MAGAZINE MAY BE USED OR REPRODUCED IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS.

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Promotions and relevant items, direct from our partners

No Excess Baggage Light yet tough, Tumi’s first aluminum line is a go-to companion for parts unknown

TUMI RECENTLY LAUNCHED its first-ever aluminum luggage collection, 19 Degree, a masterful combination of form following function. Drawing inspiration from a combination of the fluidity of nature and the exacting lines of architecture, the line has a striking, cutting-edge design and strategically sculpted angles set against its body. The brand sees this as a representation of its wide scope, its silhouette blurring the lines between fashion, art, and design. “With every mile traveled, city ventured, stamp on your passport, your journey will reach a new degree—it’s only fitting that you carry a bag that reflects your movement,” says Tumi creative director Victor Sanz. “This represents the art of intelligent design. We approached its conceptualization with the question, ‘How can we make our design less elementary and more elevated than what is already on the market?’ We felt our customer deserved a better design and an overall better product that not only performs, but looks cool while performing.” 19 Degree features a reinforced framecase design and die-cast corner caps for additional protection. Inside, the pieces have a lightweight lining with an embossed diamond pattern that complements its exterior. The line will be offered in its full range of carry-on and check-in sizes, from an International Carry-On through an Extended Trip Packing Case. All styles will feature integrated low-profile TSA locks, retractable molded top and sidecarry handles wrapped with leather detailing, and a patented X-Brace 45® telescoping handle system crafted from lightweightyet-sturdy aircraft-grade aluminum, for an even lighter feel. The collection comes in silver, black, and copper. Tumi is at Greenbelt 5, Ayala Center, Makati; 728-0117; tumi.com

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THE EDITOR’S NOTE October 2017

Heart of Darkness HOW’S THIS FOR A SCARY STORY?

Almost a year ago, I flew to the States to witness history. It was a trip planned months beforehand, the date being set and immovable. My trip to New York was mainly for one date and one reason only: November 8, 2016, the United States Presidential Elections. It was supposed to be a night of hope. As a political junkie, I flew close to 20 hours to witness the election of the first woman US president in Hillary Clinton. Her victory was inevitable, they said, as millions around the world awaited the dawn of something new. Perhaps something better. Instead, I witnessed one of the darkest nights of my life. I didn’t think it would happen or maybe I just refused to believe it would. What was supposed to be a joyous vacation of political celebration turned into one of the longest nights of my life. Silence and fear took over a proud city as I watched Donald Trump win state after state after state, his lead growing wider and wider until there was no hope left to give, no prayer worth a damn, and no chance in hell for Hillary. It was a sucker

punch to the soul; a feeling of loss that I rarely felt. Like something was taken from me, from this world. I texted my family in the middle of it all, about how I wanted to go home. Back to The Philippines. This wasn’t the vacation I wanted, I said. This wasn’t the America I always dreamed of. “It’s just as bad here,” was the only reply I got. It hasn’t gotten better since that night. In fact it’s just gotten worse. Our streets still line up with bodies of perceived criminals. Corruption is still synonymous with public policy. War and disaster has left thousands homeless and stranded in “sanctuaries.” While the fear-mongering from society’s leaders has just gotten louder and more vicious. We used to think that the only thing to fear is fear itself. Now it only takes a single tweet or a government-backed blog post to keep us up at night. In the world we live in today, it’s hard to be optimistic, even harder to stay sane. The greatest lessons we seem to get now come from warnings of dystopia or from past sins we failed to keep at bay. Newspaper headlines, online articles, and broadcast

JONT Y CRUZ Editor-in-Chief

news all say the same thing. All counting the minutes toward midnight. But is anyone listening? Where can we turn to now? Before, we would often run to the church for answers but what good is that when our so called public servants consider themselves inalienable gods whose followers will commit every sin in their holy name? They say the only thing we can really turn to is each other. But even that comes with much risk. After all, it is because of us, of our action and inaction, that led to this grave we’re stuck in. Call me a pesismist but what confidence do we have that we can get ourselves out of it anytime soon? The scariest threats today don’t come from under our beds or hide inside our closets, but all around us, overtly and secretly, in that next corner, in our highest institutions, even in our own ideologies. Because the things that go bump in the night are more real and more terrifying than any ghost story. Because at the end of the day, who needs monsters when you have demagogues?

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Promotions and relevant items, direct from our partners

Come Together Harmonious interdependence is at the core of the 2018 Lexus Design Award

THE LEXUS DESIGN AWARD (LDA) recognizes designers and

PHOTOGRAPH BY MIKIO HASUI

creators who foster ideas for a progressive future—a vision that the automotive company has for its own line of luxury vehicles. Launched in 2013, the LDA has supported the careers of global talents, providing generous funding and prestigious mentorship to an elite group of winners. Through the years, the LDA has explored both simple and complex themes, all driven by the car brand’s core values: imagination, craftsmanship, and design. Past themes such as “Motion” and “Senses” can be immediately associated with cars and driving—undoubtedly, an immersive sensory experience. “Curiosity” and “Anticipation” highlight Lexus’s commitment to relentless innovation by answering the needs of its customers. 2017’s theme, “Yet,” demands some brainwork to figure out. A conjunction that denotes a harmonious contrast, the three-letter word links disparate ideas in a sentence or thought (take, for example, 2017 prototype finalist Ahran Won’s capsule for mobile living titled “Having Nothing, Yet Possessing Everything”). For 2018, LDA takes the imaginative

path once again with the theme “Co-.” A prefix that signifies interdependence, it also points toward Lexus’s conviction that luxury and environmentalism can go hand in hand, as evidenced by their hybrid cars. Thus, LDA 2018 is on the lookout for designs that will inspire a better world through the coexistence of nature and society. Sou Fujimoto, one of the best-known Japanese architects today, Andrea Trimarchi and Simone Farresin, the duo that leads internationally acclaimed Studio Formafantasma, contemporary lighting designer Lindsey Adelman, and Forbes Magazine’s 30 under 30 Top Creatives Designing the Future awardee Jessica Walsh will mentor this year’s winners. Meanwhile, Shigeru Ban, a Japanese designer known for his ingenious use of lightweight, unconventional, and environmentally responsible materials, joins Paola Antonelli, Birgit Lohmann, Alice Rawsthorn, and Yoshihiro Sawa as the newest member of the judging panel. —GELO DIONORA Lexus Manila Inc., 3402 8th Avenue Cor. 34th Street North Bonifacio Global City, Taguig: 856-5050: Lexus.com.ph

ISSUE 114

THE GUEST LIST October 2017

MIHK VERGARA is a filmmaker. You may know him as the writer and director of Patintero: Ang Alamat ni Meng Patalo, which won the QCinema International Film Festival’s Audience Choice and Gender Sensitivity Awards in 2015.

SHAIRA LUNA is a self-taught fashion and advertising photographer based in Manila. Try flipping through the closest local magazine: there is a 70 percent chance you’ll see her name there.

SERIOUS STUDIO is an independent branding and design agency made up of a team of creatives and strategists who are 100% organic, free-range human beings. In this issue, they illustrate horror stories by Yvette Tan, Mihk Vergara, and Eliza Victoria.

LITO B. ZULUETA is a professor for journalism and literature at the University of Santo Tomas, a highlyesteemed member of the Manunuri ng Pelikulang Pilipino, and the Philippine Daily Inquirer’s current arts and books editor.

BJ PASCUAL is one of Manila’s youngest and most in-demand photographers, with over 100 magazine covers and an immense body of work from local and international publications and advertising clients under his belt.

NELSON A. NAVARRO is an activist, journalist, and biographer who began his career with Graphic magazine in 1968, later co-founding anti-Martial Law magazine Ningas Cogon. He’s been a columnist for major broadsheets and a co-anchor on ABSCBN and GMA.

YVETTE TAN is best known for her work in fantasy and horror, for which she has won numerous awards. She also writes nonfiction, focusing on food, travel, and personality profiles. Here, she pens the tale of an old man’s horrifying last confession to a priest.

PATRICK PAEZ, before heading news production and becoming an anchor, was a field guy covering politics, disasters, and the fighting in Mindanao and Afghanistan. Here, he makes a case for Manila as avantgarde.

ELIZA VICTORIA is the author of several books, including the graphic novel After Lambana and the novels Dwellers and Wounded Little Gods. Her fiction and poetry have appeared both online and in print, winning top literary prizes and awards.

October 2017

Edited by

JEROME GOMEZ

AGENDA

F O O D + E N T E RTA I N M E N T + C U LT U R E + T R AV E L

fluence ever y design in m o fr w ra d ing orn had to t people watch golden age, p t ge e rn to te n t— -i ar re p p o In its m kitsch to p QU EZ available—fro BE LL E M AR IE AN NA W OR DS BY

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MAN, THOSE WERE the days: when porn was an eroticized version

RETRO RAUNCH

The book’s collection of vintage adult movie posters is accompanied by insightful text by Peter Doggett, who writes that “Variations on the same glamormag approach—women, breasts, buttocks— were routine, with pictures and typography that often looked as if it had been thrown at the poster rather than artfully arranged.”

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of Pygmalion, not a home video of a bored married couple trying out handcuffs. When porn was cheerleaders gallantly fucking their way to help a friend achieve her dreams instead of the tragedy that is “revenge porn.” When porn was a woman with a clitoris in her throat instead of a bunch of alien tentacles. Enter X-Rated: Adult Movie Posters of the 60s and 70s, a freshly curated and expanded edition of the best in pornographic cinema art. The book, released by Reel Art Press (reelartpress.com), is an update of the cult classic by Tony Nourmand and Graham Marsh published a decade ago. For creatives, historians, and readers alike, it’s a fun, raunchy flashback, with over 350 posters, pressbooks, and stills from the Golden Age of the X-Rated Movie. In the book’s new introduction, journalist, editor, and author Peter Doggett writes, “For connoisseurs of the film poster, porn cinema offers an alternative history of the 1960s and the 1970s.” “Porn cinema” might sound a little weird to today’s audiences, when adult material is so widely available on the most portable of screens. But in decades past, any onscreen titillation meant a visit to a seedier “specialty cinema.” It was then that the Golden Age of the X-Rated Movie took off, spanning 15 years—beginning with Andy Warhol’s Blue Movie in 1969, the first erotic film to receive a wide theatrical release. Porn began garnering mainstream viewership, critical attention, promotion from respected industry figures, and box office success. Ralph Blumenthal of The New York Times dubbed it “porno chic”—an American cultural trend that went international.

The era produced a few notables: Mona the Virgin Nymph (1970), an adult film with an actual plot, whose forays into oral sex helped shape the porn industry. Deep Throat (1972) earned a record $3M in its first six months of release during a time when the average movie ticket was $5. The Opening of Misty Beethoven (1976) was praised as the period’s “crown jewel” for its high budget, multiple location shoots, and film score. And, of course, there’s Debbie Does Dallas (1978), which spawned a number of spin-offs and even an off-Broadway musical in 2002. Some of today’s most well-known actors started with smut: 23-year-old Sylvester Stallone starred in The Party at Kitty and Stud’s (1970), where he famously earned $100 for two days’ work. The book captures this enjoyably brash and uninhibited wave of cinema, walking readers through the evolution of porn and a look at the role graphic artists, art directors, and copywriters played in its production. Doggett writes, “[The] mission was to tease and provoke, to conjure up fantasies and arouse repressed desires, with minimum budget and maximum impact. Everything—typography, the pictorials, those enticing verbal come-ons—was focused on the irresistible allure of the forbidden.” The designer’s task was pretty straightforward: to get an audience any which way into the cinema with the promise of sex onscreen. Designs were loud and crude: think cut-and-paste collages where screaming text collides with images of scantily-clad, well-endowed women—all awash in vivid color. The language was provocative, unashamedly punny, and over-the-top, complemented by a design pastiche that was reminiscent of comic books and pulp magazines.

“The mission was to tease and provoke, to conjure up fantasies and arouse repressed desires.” Treatments drew from the fun ironies of kitsch and camp, to the abstraction of psychedelic design, to the bold and dynamic nature of pop art. Occasionally, there were more sophisticated attempts, such as the soft core film Emmanuelle in 1974, with a poster designed by Steve Frankfurt, an original Mad Man. Flipping through the pages is an entertaining game of spotting the influences of the likes of Warhol, Saul Bass, Roy Lichtenstein, and Wes Wilson, as well as design elements that are still used today. Much of what came out of porn’s golden age has faded into obscurity, but their posters remain the ultimate in promotional mediums and continue to serve as design inspiration for all things retro, raunch, and fun. X-Rated: Adult Movie Posters of the 60s and 70s isn’t so much a lesson that sex sells (when has it not?), but a striking period collection of some of pornography’s most public and enduring aspects. n

X-RATED ADULT MOVIE POSTERS OF THE 60S AND 70S BY TONY NOURMAND AND GRAHAM MARSH IS PUBLISHED BY REEL ART PRESS (REELARTPRESS.COM)

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EXTENDED SHELF LIFE Are libraries a holdover from an untenable past? With a modern building, an updated collection, and faith in print as well as digital, the Quezon City Public Library says, “No” WORDS BY PAOLO ENRICO MELENDEZ PHOTOS BY RENZO NAVARRO

A PUBLIC LIBRARY doesn’t have much going for it these days—social space is shrinking in favor of the commercially owned, and information is a couple of taps away on an AMOLED display. But the folks at the Quezon City Public Library (QCPL) don’t seem to be the type to heed trends. For one, they’re a very personable bunch. Say the word “librarian,” and—if pop culture is to be believed, at least—you think, “awkward scholar.” But the people running this particular government library have charm in spades. No less than four staff members showed us around for the interview and shoot. Even city librarian Emelita Villanueva took a break from her day to speak with us, insisting we have coffee at the building’s bright and airy café. All around us were people engrossed in reading, as is natural in this communal space of both external and internal discovery, mined by creators as varied as J.K. Rowling and Umberto Eco for both Buffy the Vampire Slayer pablum and The Library of Babel snoot.

In the QCPL’s vision, balance is key: analog books and digital media are complementary resources. FROM COVER TO COVER

The main branch of the Quezon City Public Library is the central hub on which its satellite locations will base their designs and systems. Opposite: The library’s current tropical look was completed in February 2017.

The original QCPL opened in 1948 as a single-story building adjacent to the old Quezon City Hall along EDSA, then still known as Highway 54. The main library would move three more times, opening satellite branches across the city as it did so. Its current location is its fourth, and most modern. Rising from what was once idle land used by an adjacent motor pool for tambakan, the two-story tropical contemporary building had been the stuff of dreams for staff since 2010. Construction began two years ago and was completed last February. The collection has grown from 4,000 to a little over 18,000 titles, both from donations and procurement. The library is open to the public, but Quezon City residents get more perks. A wait of 10 minutes, tops, gets you a library card

valid for three years at 60 bucks a pop. You can’t bring out books from the Quezon City collection, but the fiction collection is graband-go. There’s a children’s section complete with a calendar of edutainment activities, a collection of Quezon City resolutions going back nearly a century, and extensive Filipiniana, now digitally indexed. In a later conversation, Villanueva stressed that in the QCPL’s vision, balance is key: analog books and digital media are complementary resources. The new building has allowed for upgrades, as well. The famous QCPL Puppeteers, now on their 10th year, have their own rehearsal and prop room. State-of-the-art compactors have replaced bulky shelves. Work stations with high-bandwidth connections now give visitors access to government websites; assistance is provided to users unfamiliar with the interface. A multimedia area and two meeting rooms are open to other city hall units, making the library a functional resource too, outside the usual library duties.

THE MAIN BRANCH OF THE QUEZON CITY PUBLIC LIBRARY IS LOCATED ON MAYAMAN STREET, BARANGAY CENTRAL, QUEZON CITY; 927-9834

And the periodicals section now houses titles both in circulation and out of print; the café mentioned earlier serves as an extension of this collection. As if all these weren’t reason enough to take a breather, the QCPL has a lot more lined up in the near future. The main library serves as the nerve center of 20 satellite locations, from swanky Horseshoe to gritty Galas, and the big dream is to make all of these satellites as cutting edge as the main one, from the computer terminals to the RFID systems. Plans to establish international partnerships are under way, as are moves to expand the QCPL fleet of mobile libraries. And in what is perhaps the best indicator of growth, over three dozen plantilla positions have been approved for filling as the QCPL gears up to become a full-fledged department. So what the QCPL has may not only be just charm, but also straight-up savvy—a frankly refreshing thing, this nimble evolution in a time when other institutions are happy to simply shift weight as the world moves around them. n OCTOBER 2017

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BANG FOR BUCK

THE ORIGINS OF a group bold enough to call itself Deus Sex Machina

Rebound sex, tubero musicals, and tokhang gone wild—it’s all up for play on a night with Deus Sex Machina WORDS BY PATRICIA CHONG PHOTO BY JILSON TIU

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could only have begun with a joke. In 2014, Marco Sumayao and his friends dared each other to write and perform sexy fan fiction. One among them teased that he’d book a venue. To their collective horror, he did just that 10 minutes later, turning what should have been a private show into a public spectacle of loud moaning and clever innuendo. “I thought it would just be dick jokes,” says Kenneth Keng, who was invited by Sumayao to host the show. “We’d be kind of embarrassed, and then we’d never do it again.” But the group’s first performance—complete with skits involving Kris Aquino, Dr. Seuss, and all the vegetables in “Bahay Kubo”—had UNO Morato packed and turning people away at the door.

DEUS SEX MACHINA WILL BE PERFORMING THEIR THIRD ANNIVERSARY SHOW ON OCTOBER 25, 2017 AT DULO, 2294 P. GUANZON ST, POBLACION, MAKATI.

Deus Sex Machina is the kind of show where few things—definitely not sex itself—are kept safe. COME AND PLAY

Deus Sex Machina has performed its unique brand of sexual humor in themed shows for three years. Opposite: The group’s core team, ( from left) Denice de Guzman, Marco Sumayao, Kenneth Keng, and Dante Gagelonia.

Even then, others stayed to peep through the windows. They’d filled a hole in the fabric of Manila’s nightlife, and just like that, Deus Sex Machina became the country’s first and only comedic erotica live reading show. Nearly three years later and they’ve definitely gotten around, growing into a talent pool of over 40 performers and writers. They’ve had the likes of Jef Flores and Red Concepcion singing and tap dancing away to original tunes about rebound sex, and Palanca-winning playwright Dustin Celestino penning a tubero musical. The group is now a regular at arts festival Fringe Manila, turning the Cultural Center of the Philippines into the setting of extremely unlikely couplings (and threesomes) situated in the worlds of Disney, The Karate Kid, and Philippine politics. Their third anniversary performance at Dulo, Poblacion edges closer to the promise of something more outrageous. Deus Sex Machina is the kind of show where few things— definitely not sex itself—are kept safe or held innately sacred. But aside from a few Star Wars fans walking out, backlash has only ever come in the form of being reported on social media. Not bad, when the endeavor could have very easily become an ugly caricature of the more conservative set’s worst nightmares. “We have guidelines,” says Denice de

Guzman, who helps check written pieces for problematic elements before they are put through workshops and rehearsals in the months leading up to a show. “First of all, all sex is consensual. That means no children and no animals. Second, it’s not misogynistic. Third, it’s sex-positive all the time.” “That’s the rule,” Sumayao says firmly. “We don’t portray sex in a negative light.” The absence of shaming and misogyny is in itself surreal, transforming the show into a safe space and even the most bizarre story into something relatable and thought-provoking—once you suspend your disbelief. He adds, “We don’t judge people for what they’re into unless, you know, it’s rape.” “Then we’ll judge hard,” interjects Dante Gagelonia, who joined the group after watching its first shows. “And we might slap you many times—unless you like it.” He continues, “We like pushing the boundaries of what’s acceptable. It’s not for the shock value, but because we want to get people talking. Humor is an excellent way to defuse that bomb, to really get people interested in what sex can mean.” It’s the fun version of a reproductive health advocacy, though the group has no problem exploring the overtly political. It can cover anything from a musical retelling of Senator Leila de Lima’s trial to even a skit about two policemen on their first Oplan Tokhang operation discovering they are in love with each other. “And then getting into an orgy with the people they were going to tokhang,” Keng finishes. The question of how exactly comedic erotica moans its way into a city as conservative as Manila isn’t lost on them. “You have Burlesque PH, Kink Carnival, Ilya, bondage, and nude drawing sessions now,” says Keng. “Even though they’re a little under the surface, it’s not like they’re secret.” “They promote sex-positivity through the normalization of sex,” says Sumayao. “We do it by laughing at it. It’s the best way to break the taboo. Use humor. It rubs off on the audience.” “That sounds wrong,” Gagelonia laughs. “It’s with their consent,” Sumayao responds. “That’s what the ticket means.” n

PULP FRICTION As its third anniversary approaches, here’s a look back at some of the best lines from Deus Sex Machina DISNEY SEX MACHINA ARIEL: I did it the way fish do. I laid my eggs and asked him to spill his sperm over them. MERIDA: So ye had yer period on the bed and asked him to jack off into the puddle.

GRINCH 2 He crept toward the glow, his knees nervously shaking. Was the lesbian Who who lived here awaking? He peeked into the kitchen, his face went aflush, For he saw Sapphic action that could make Jesus blush!

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE MYSTERY OF WHO WAS IN MY MOUTH HOLMES: Tell them, John, why I chose 221B Baker Street as our home. WATSON: Two 21-year-old B-cups are your ideal breasts.

HARD FOR GODARD “Great! Come into my mason jar.” Jessica wiggled her butt as she said this. Anal? Alvie thought. Maybe it was a hipster thing. Maybe the vagina was too mainstream. He started pulling down her shorts, when she suddenly turned around. In her hand was an actual mason jar.

A PERPLEXING PENIS PREDICAMENT ERIC: That penis was a symbol of my masculinity, and now it’s gone! ASSLEY: Well you didn’t seem to have a lot of either in the first place.

OCTOBER 2017

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BACK TO THE FUTURE With the release of the cult sci-fi classic sequel Blade Runner 2049, director Denis Villeneuve talks about getting Ridley Scott’s blessing, the return of Harrison Ford, and his fears for the future

WHEN BLADE RUNNER premiered in 1982,

the ambitious, unique sci-fi movie that was closer to old school noir films than Star Wars or Flash Gordon barely made a dent in popular culture. It wasn’t until its release on video and in different cuts over the years that the film eventually found its audience. Thirtyfive years later, Ridley Scott’s dystopian epic finally gets a sequel with Blade Runner 2049. This time, the man behind the camera is critically acclaimed director Denis Villeneuve. He opens up about the challenges of continuing the beloved story and the impact the original has had on his career. —JONTY CRUZ

How did you end up getting to direct Blade Runner 2049? I would have never dared, honestly, to propose myself for such a task. I vividly remember the moment when I was meeting with Andrew Kosove and Broderick Johnson about Prisoners. They stopped the meeting and they said, “We have to stop because Ridley Scott will come in. He’s in the other room right now and we have to meet with

him because we are planning to do a sequel to Blade Runner.” At that precise moment, I thought it was the most insane and beautiful idea at the same time. Because it’s such a challenge. It’s a difficult thing to go on with the story, to try to reproduce what had been a landmark in film history. It’s not a small thing. I remember saying, “Good luck, guys.” But knowing that Ridley was there, knowing that he was behind the project, I said to myself, wow, I can’t wait to see that. I remember being in their office and peeking in the boxes to see artwork that Ridley was doing. Such powerful visions and images. So, to answer your question, it came out of the blue. One day Andrew said to me, “I need to see you.” I was in New Mexico at the time. We sat together in a small coffee shop. He said, “This is the screenplay for the next Blade Runner.” I was sincerely moved. (Laughs) Because just to have the chance to read that, I was so moved that he would trust me to read the screenplay and give my opinion about it. For me, it was the biggest compliment I’ve

“It took a lot of time. One of the conditions was that I needed Ridley Scott’s blessing.” ever received because of that amount of trust that Alcon [Entertainment] had, to put this in my hands. Once I read the screenplay, the first thing that I thought was: will I be able to do this? I dreamed a lot before saying yes. It took a lot of time. One of the conditions was that I needed Ridley Scott’s blessing. Meaning that I needed to be sitting in front of him, looking him in the eyes and saying, “You agree that

“The movie is the same kind of color palette, but made by another painter. I don’t know how the world will react to that.”

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

From top: Rick Deckard, played by Harrison Ford, is rumored to be revealed as a replicant in this latest chapter; director Denis Villeneuve talks to Ryan Gosling in between takes as Sylvia Hoeks listens in. Opposite: Thirty-five years after the original movie, Blade Runner 2049 now focuses on a new lead, K, played by Gosling.

I will take part in this dream with you.” And that was my only condition. I needed Ridley’s blessing. How did that meeting go? Ridley Scott is one of my heroes, he’s one of the best directors in film history. So to meet him was intimidating, at first. He told me the genesis of Blade Runner for him—how he came up with those ideas, where it came from, what was his goal. He said to me exactly what I needed to hear, which is that he would give me total freedom.

But if ever I needed him, I could call him any time to ask him questions about design, concept art, style, actors. He was open to any kind of question. In fact, he was there every time I needed him. At the end he said, looking me in the eyes, shaking my hand, “Listen, it’s very simple. If you do your homework correctly, it can be fantastic. If you fuck it up, it’s going to be a disaster.” So that was the last thing he said to me. (Laughs) And I said, “Yeah, that’s honest.” (Laughs) That’s exactly what he had to say. What about collaborating with Ridley and Hampton Fancher on the story—what was important to carry over from the original movie? Was that discussed? The thing I felt that was the most important for Ridley was not what is shown in the movie; it’s what he didn’t show: off-world, the mythology behind how the replicants are designed and built, etc. When you think about it, Blade Runner is a very intimate story with a lot of scope.

You have that fantastic world around you, but you are always on the human point, at the human level, and you are always just behind Rick Deckard. It was one of the strengths and the genius of Ridley to approach the movie in this way. So it means that they found ways to make us feel how big this world is without showing it. I think that is still one of the big strengths of that film. I think what Ridley wanted was to keep the mythology alive by not showing it. I needed to be very careful where I would put my camera. The first problem that I had to deal with was, I’m going to be in 2049, and what is in a Blade Runner universe? Because as we know, the first movie was set in 2019. We all know that it was prophetic in some ways, that there are a lot of things we saw in the first movie that are alive today. But, at the same time, it’s a different world. There was no Steve Jobs in the Blade Runner of 2019. So it meant that, for me, I had to build an alternative universe. 2049 is the extension of the original Blade Runner; it’s not an extension of reality, like the first Blade Runner was. The first was inspired by the end of the 70s. I inspired myself by Blade Runner. That is a choice that made sense to me, and made sense to Hampton Fancher as well. He said, “Listen, stop putting pressure on your shoulders. The first movie was a dream. We just dreamt a lot, and you have to do the same thing. Don’t try to think about the logic of it, just dream about it.” That was the best advice I ever received as my guideline to making this movie. I will say also that I was moved, because from time to time I received poems from Hampton that I kept, as a source of inspiration. At that point, what were your biggest hopes or fears as you were entering that mission? This movie is totally different from any other project I’ve done in my life. I was used to creating worlds that were coming out of myself. I did an adaptation of a play, but still I had to create the images. Now the world was already designed by someone else, and I was taking someone else’s dream. And that was a totally different experience. There’s such a responsibility. And it took me a lot of meditation to find freedom, OCTOBER 2017

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to allow myself to do it. To let it go and just have fun with it. But it was a journey at the beginning to find my way. And I’m still grateful to Ridley for giving me that freedom, giving me the space to do it. The movie is the same kind of color palette, but made by another painter. I don’t know how the world will react to that. Why was Ryan Gosling the best actor to play K? How did you develop a creative relationship with him on set? One thing that was suggested when I read the screenplay was that K could be played by Ryan Gosling. I think it was Ridley’s idea. As soon as I read the screenplay, I said yes immediately. There is nobody else. He’s someone that can express everything just by moving an eyebrow, you know? I needed an actor that had an extreme intelligence and that sensibility to go through the story, making the character not a victim, but someone that wants to go through the wall of his own condition. When did you find out Harrison Ford was onboard? Right at the beginning, when I read the screenplay. Harrison was a part of the project before I was. In fact, he’s one of the reasons why I am here. Ridley was not available to direct the film because he was busy on another project and they needed a director, 26 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

“It would not be possible to make a Blade Runner without Harrison Ford, of course.” IF LOOKS COULD KILL

Known for creating distinct and stunning visuals, Villeneuve has been tasked to not only capture the look of the original Blade Runner, but to also expand its world further.

and that’s when I came in. Harrison was part of the project from day one. It would not be possible to make a Blade Runner without Harrison Ford, of course. What was it like working with him and bringing back that iconic character? It was a very special journey because he’s someone that is linked with the birth of my love for cinema right at the beginning. I was raised on Star Wars and Blade Runner and all of those movies. Harrison for the past 40 years has been one of the biggest stars, someone that was part of all of our dreams when we were young. To meet him and to

be in contact with him was really a huge privilege, but also, I got to meet one of my childhood heroes. He broke the ice very quickly by being the warmest and most charming, thoughtful, generous, humble artist I’ve ever met. And working with him was like going back to film school. He’s someone that has so much experience and gives so much thought to the acting process in a way that I very rarely encounter. For me, it was a really beautiful and unique experience working with Harrison Ford. How do you imagine the world in 2049? A big problem today is that it is very difficult to dream about the future. All the sci-fi movies are dystopian. There is no more utopia, meaning a beautiful dream. It’s something that I’m asking myself. I should think about that, try to find a way just for myself or for other people to dream a bit in a positive way about the future. Because right now, it’s like the future is pretty frightening from a political view and from an environmental climate view. Let’s say that we didn’t make things more bright, going from 2019 to 2049. It’s like the world just became more nightmarish. But there’s some good news: in 2049, we are still alive. (Laughs) So we are still there. That’s the only thing I can say. But I think we need more positive dreamers right now. n

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SHOCK VALUE

Ledesma’s workshop is littered with mannequins and prosthetic limbs. Below: Casts of various actors’ faces, all used to create prosthetics.

MONSTER’S BALL Creating fantasies while keeping things real is the business of prosthetics artist Lora Ledesma WORDS BY SAM POTENCIANO PHOTOS BY GERIC CRUZ

“WE HAVE PIOLO’S arm, if you want to hug

it,” Lora Ledesma teases. The co-founder of Octopod, Inc. (octopodsfx.com), one of the country’s few special effects labs, is giving us a tour of her workshop. Half-finished sculptures of hollow-eyed creatures are scattered around the room, which is also stacked with racks of swords, tattoo stencils, and prosthetic limbs. Outside, an industrialsized oven sits ominously in the shadows, flanked by discarded mannequins. “A whole person can fit in there,” Ledesma offers. “You could even make a shepherd’s pie.” It’s easy to imagine the childhood cinema that would conceivably mold Ledesma’s otherworldly visuals and dark humor. A steady diet, perhaps, of 80s and 90s films by Carpenter and Romero? But she laughs off the suggestion and reveals that, despite her chosen trade, she is not—and never has been—a fan of horror. “I don’t watch horror films at all!” she says. “I can look at photos for research, but once I know the story behind them, that’s where I draw the line.” A surprising admission, to say the least, considering the breadth of her recent work. This year alone, Ledesma and Octopod were responsible for the key makeup for Jerrold Tarog’s controversial Bliss, the prosthetics for Dan Villegas’s supernatural horror Ilawod, and the heavy rotation of mystical armor and weapons on GMA’s fantaserye Encantadia. Having originally taken up an 18-week Master Course at the Cinema Makeup School in Los Angeles, Ledesma eventually expanded her oeuvre to include prosthetics, props, costumes, and even animatronics. “The reason we added those services was because they made use of the same facilities we have, such as drills, fiberglass, and paint. It was just a different application,” she explains.

Her big break in the local industry—which she also remembers as the most grueling— came when she was tasked to construct 11 miniature sets for the 2014 mermaid drama Dyesebel. “We had about 40 people in total working on those sets for a month and a half,” she says. “Our whole workshop was filled with these undersea castles.” After Dyesebel came more genre-heavy projects, such as Wenn Deramas’s Maria Leonora Teresa, in which Ledesma had to create creepy, life-sized dolls, and Francis Xavier Pasyon’s Bwaya, which involved the recreation of a victim whose head was bitten off by a crocodile. Despite her aversion to horror, Ledesma admits that in researching the accuracy of her prosthetic work, she’s had to develop a strong stomach. “I have to Google everything,” she says. “I end up looking at a lot of dead bodies, a lot of injuries. For example, someone who’s fallen off of a cliff, or been attacked by an animal. I also contact my doctor friends to get their advice. I take their input and stylize it for the camera.” While Ledesma is thankful for each high profile project and collaborator that has come her way in the short amount of time she has set up shop, she admits that, artistically speaking, she has yet to find full creative satisfaction. “My personal talents as an artist will enhance the wrinkles or the fangs the director is thinking of, but my job is to make their vision a reality while working within the producer’s budget. Those are my limitations,” she says. “Creatively, it would be most satisfying if I had complete control over the whole process… but I’m trying to redefine what satisfaction is because all of these projects got me to where I am today. Each one has its own bag of goodies and its own Pandora’s Box.” n OCTOBER 2017

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October 2017

SPACE

Edited by

JEROME GOMEZ

Issue

114

DESIGN + INTERIORS + ARCHITECTURE + TECHNOLOGY

F O R

T H E

M A N

W H O

H A S

E V E R Y T H I N G PHOTOS BY RENZO NAVARRO STYLING BY MARTINA BAUTISTA

Furniture meets fiction in four stories of decadence and desire inspired by the best-designed pieces today

KENNETH COBONPUE BLOOM CHAIR, THE PIETRO COLLECTION FAUX PLANT, CEMENT HEAD PLANTER, TOPIARY BALL, VITRA WHITE EAMES ELEPHANT, NATUZZI IDO SIDE TABLE

KENNETH COBUNPUE AVAILABLE AT THE RESIDENCES, SAN LORENZO TOWER, ARNAIZ STREET, MAKATI; THE PIETRO COLLECTION AVAILABLE AT LA FUERZA COMPOUND, 2241 DON CHINO ROCES AVE, MAKATI; NATUZZI AND VITRA AVAILABLE AT 2 ND AND 3 RD FLOOR, MOS DESIGN GALLERY, B2 BONIFACIO HIGH STREET, BONIFACIO GLOBAL CITY, TAGUIG. PREVIOUS: NATUZZI AVAILABLE AT 2 ND FLOOR, MOS DESIGN GALLERY, MOS DESIGN BUILDING, B2 BONIFACIO HIGH STREET, BONIFACIO GLOBAL CITY; THE PIETRO COLLECTION AVAILABLE AT LA FUERZA COMPOUND, 2241 DON CHINO ROCES AVE, MAKATI

There were still evenings when he thought of Dennis sleeping in the surf, all of the night, then all of the day. He could have been there more, but he had his own troubles that walled him in. He saw visions unincorporated, heard whispers in the silences. The doctor kept him safe, kept him sane, kept him to himself. That was real fine, my 409. He never was into beaches—that was Dennis—but they had kept him able to see the doctor. He could sit where he pleased because of beaches. He could, when he felt like it, sit by the shore and listen for the arpeggios in the sloshing of the waves.

RASTRULLO AVAILABLE AT 943 APACIBLE STREET, PACO, MANILA ; THE PIETRO COLLECTION AVAILABLE AT LA FUERZA COMPOUND, 2241 DON CHINO ROCES AVE, MAKATI

He knew for sure he did not want to die like his father, even though it was not entirely clear to him where his father was in the end. If death had to come (and he certainly would marshal every resource imaginable to avoid it), he wanted to die on his feet—virile but regally elderly, loved but feared, the death of a self-reliant warrior. He did not want the poisons that he had contracted for his loved ones, the anti-aircraft guns that pounded the flesh of others in his name. He was, however, starting to conclude that the choices were no longer his to make. He had spun a web too intricate for his callow mind to comprehend. “What a fine mess,” he may have thought, had he been a Laurel and Hardy fan. But unlike his father, he was not an effete film connoisseur.

LIGNE ROSET VELVET MOEL CHAIR, DESIGN BY INGA SEMPÉ, THE PIETRO COLLECTION CANDLE STICKS, BLACK PLANTER, FAUX FLOWERS. PREVIOUS: RASTRULLO RAGNO CHAIR, THE PIETRO COLLECTION BOOK BOXES, RAM HORN TABLE LAMP, METAL SIDE TABLE, GLASS CANDLE HOLDER

LIGNE ROSET AVAILABLE AT 3 RD FLOOR, MOS DESIGN GALLERY, MOS DESIGN BUILDING, B2 BONIFACIO HIGH STREET, BONIFACIO GLOBAL CITY; THE PIETRO COLLECTION AVAILABLE AT LA FUERZA COMPOUND, 2241 DON CHINO ROCES AVE, MAKATI

He may have blitzed through Paris, but it was long enough for him to take in the elegant sensibility through which the French filtered the modernist trends he otherwise despised. (After all, he had shuttered the Bauhaus.) He did fancy himself to be a modern man, unshorn of the indulgent and inefficient values of the past. Elitism. Égalité. Compassion. Above all, he valued the plush fabric that cushioned his tush. We must reward ourselves, he thought, in every possible context. He did not yet think of the time that would come when he would worry about the blood staining the couch. He thought he had a thousand years.

MINOT TI AVAILABLE AT LIVING INNOVATIONS GF FORT VICTORIA 5 TH AVE. CORNER 23 RD STREET, BONIFACIO GLOBAL CITY, TAGUIG; THE PIETRO COLLECTION AVAILABLE AT LA FUERZA COMPOUND, 2241 DON CHINO ROCES AVE, MAKATI

“It was always about the articles,” he would continue to insist. Perhaps more tongue-in-cheek in the beginning, when readers started allowing themselves to imagine more unknown regions their tongues could explore. But he did keep a close eye on the written word, engaging the most incisive of writers and the best of editors. He wanted to keep his boobs literate as they stared into literal boobs. He set limits that his competitors were all too happy to cross. He was slow to realize that his cultural obsolescence preceded the end of pages, and the birth of the women who kept him company in the end. n MINOTTI COLETTE ARMCHAIR, THE PIETRO COLLECTION GLASS HOURGLASS, MAGNIFYING GLASS AND 3 ARM FLOORLAMP

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FINE ROMANCE After much anticipation, Hôtel de Crillon’s new interiors do not disappoint. Tristan Auer, Maison & Objet’s Designer of the Year, created spaces that retain the establishment’s romance with the past while speaking to a contemporary traveler WORDS BY JEROME GOMEZ

34 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

IT WAS QUITE the well-planned occasion. Tristan Auer was being honored at the mammoth design fair Maison & Objet (M&O) last September in Paris, and the cocktails for the international press were held at the newly reborn Hôtel de Crillon, the iconic Paris landmark. The movers behind the exhibition raised a toast for Monsieur Auer, who had brought his family along, and whose proof of expertise was not only showcased in a beautiful booth at the M&O halls, but also present at the cocktails venue: he designed the makeover of many of the rooms on the Hôtel de Crillon’s ground floor. Located at one of the most enchanting public squares in Paris, Place de la Concorde, the hotel has been around since the 18th century (it is where Marie Antoinette took music lessons) and reopened last July after months of work on its interiors that involved many master craftsmen,

Monsieur Auer designed the rooms to “resemble” the kind of people who will inhabit them LA VIE PARISIENNE

The front desk near the Place de la Concorde entrance makes checking in almost like a secret affair; it also overlooks two luxuriously furnished meeting areas. Opposite: a men’s salon has deco touches and a gold and green palette.

artisans, and designers. The goal was to bring new life to its dusty recent past and introduce it to the traveler of the 21st century, which, to the people behind it, was all about “striking a balance between conservation and transformation.” Apart from Auer, three other Paris-based designers were tapped to reimagine select areas of the establishment: Chahan Minassian, Cyril Vergniol, and Aline Asmar d’Amman. Auer, who is certainly not a neophyte in designing luxury spaces (he has done private villas and apartments in New York and London, the Les Bains hotels in Paris, and the Cotton House in Mustique) was in charge of creating the looks for the collection of small, intimate spaces on the ground level, bringing into them his signature meticulousness and ability to inspire emotion. Never one to bow

to rules, he designed the rooms to “resemble” the kind of people who will inhabit them. Overtly contemporary additions were eschewed for the more quiet gestures, as in the use of floor tile patterns; chairs less palace-fitting, but the kinds one may find in a 21st century home; and the arrangement of furniture that evokes the feeling of privacy in this very public setting. Auer incorporated a cognac and cigar room just outside the brasserie, as well as a men’s grooming salon and a women’s spa that impart a sense of subdued classicism. Touches of artisanal refinement whisper here and there, like the especially organically made celadon paint for pillars, and the metal and rooster feathers (by haute couture artist Eric Charles-Donatien) that bloom from an alcove just before one enters the lush indoor courtyard. n OCTOBER 2017

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Featuring Caracole’s Hudson Sofa from the Modern Uptown Upholstery Collection

WINDS OF CHANGE Inspired by diverse cultures, Caracole steers global aesthetics toward simple, elegant designs WORDS BY GELO DIONORA

“TURN A NEW leaf”—a fresh start, a resolution to change oneself for the better, a shift in perspective or direction. Alternatively, it is the name of a buffet cabinet that brings together world cultures, lifestyles, and travel scenes into a design statement. Dotting Koto wood from West Africa are champagnecolored leaves assembled in contemporary arabesque patterns, inspired by Japanese

36 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

wallpapers. With a shimmering silkscreen finish, custom crystal hardware, and golden accents, the four-door piece exudes understated elegance. “Turn A New Leaf” embodies the Caracole philosophy: a beautiful turn in a new direction. By definition, “caracole” refers to a slow, turning movement. In the equestrian sport of dressage, it is the graceful half-turn executed by the horse and its rider. For the American furniture brand, they aim to steer interior design toward new and exciting directions, with unique silhouettes, meticulous craftsmanship, and exclusive materials. As an added surprise, functional elements—charging stations, storage options, and security features, to name a few—are strategically incorporated into the designs, hidden from sight to maintain each piece’s beauty. Caracole’s signature items include: the

matte metallic Sociable and Socialite cocktail tables, whose details on the lower stretcher have been the brand’s signature pattern since 2009; the Lattice Entertain You sofa set, with its exposed wood frame and an open Moroccan-inspired fretwork design on each arm panel; and the Ice Breaker lounge chair, with its custom-engineered frame in a Gold Bullion metal tone and a micro-herringbone pattern in off-white linen-blend fabric. The brand’s new showroom (3/F, Greenbelt 5) brings their international presence to more than 70 locations in 40 countries worldwide. It features pieces from the Caracole Classic and Modern portfolios, addressing a wide range of consumers. Design enthusiasts can also look forward to the bespoke Caracole Signature collection, inspired by regal style and crafted from elegant materials and highly polished finishes. n

October 2017

THE EYE

Edited by

MANO GONZALES

Issue

114

FA S H I O N + S T Y L E + G R O O M I N G

Designers express a sense of the familiar and the tried-and-tested for Fall, this time in supersized silhouettes, denser fabrics, and a whole lot of attitude

Crew

Cut Fendi

A.P.C.

That 70’s Show No revival here, as swirling patchwork at Prada and kooky prints at Fendi prove that the 70s are still in full swing. Watch out for more clash, color, and corduroy coming your way. Prada

WORDS BY STEVEN CORALDE%

ART BY PIA SAMSON%

Chalayan

Lanvin

Vetements

Sports Unlimited It’s time to upgrade your outerwear of choice. At Vetements and Lanvin, sportswear influences and refined tailoring made this season’s sports jackets more luxurious by way of oversized silhouettes and hybridized fabrics.

Chalayan

Balenciaga

Jill Sanders

Business is Business Baggy, slouchy, boxy, and big: the updated take on executive motifs seen in suit jackets and trousers at Balenciaga and Jil Sander is business suiting that feels less banal and more relevant for today.

Astrid Anderson

Gosha Rubchinskiy

Gosha Rubchinskiy

Track-by-track Its unstructured silhouette was the starting point, but the key to taking tracksuits a step up is by way of monochromatic pairings rendered in lush fabrications, as seen in Gosha Rubchinskiy and Astrid Andersen.

Stella McCartney

Rick Owens

Balenciaga

Padded Pleasure A$AP Rocky made headlines when he was spotted on the streets of Milan wearing Balenciaga’s puffer piece. Supersized at Rick Owens or shrunk to perfection at Balenciaga, take it from A$AP: the padded jacket is the only statement you need.

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THE EYE STYLE

THE WELLDRESSED MAN Building a solid wardrobe need not be tedious and complicated. Let a celebrated name in dapper style guide you INTERVIEW BY MANO GONZALES

AFTER OPENING ITS first shop along Kimberley Road in Hong Kong in 1953, Ascot Chang has since become the go-to label for bespoke shirts and suits. As a name that is synonymous to everyday confidence, it knows a thing or two about standing out in a crowd. The brand’s general manager Lincoln Chang and business development manager Justin Chang—third generation men from the founder and master tailor—were in town to talk about the many details that go into a well put-together look.

Your brand is known for its heritage. What does Ascot Chang mean for today’s man? Our philosophy is the same as it has always been, which is high quality stitching, 22 stitches per inch on the shirts, because that is the philosophy of our brand—to be able to maintain the level of quality for the customers, as that’s what they’re looking for. As more and more brands out there try to take shortcuts with the production, we always want to make sure that we do it the way my grandfather did 30 years ago. It doesn’t matter what era we’re in; that’s number one. Having said that, we are always trying to follow the trends of today, not necessarily up to the runway fashion, but I think in terms of over a span of time, the suits are slimmed down, shorter pant and jacket length, softer shoulders, a more casual look. For the man who wants to create this wardrobe, where should he start? He can start with a navy suit that’s not too shiny. But he can also wear that jacket with a pair of jeans. If the jacket’s too shiny, it doesn’t look good with jeans. You can also pair that with khaki pants, and you always look good. Besides that, white shirts, because they’re easy to match with everything. Aside from that, a man needs a nice pair of shoes. Everyone notices a good pair of shoes. For ties, you’ll need navy blue ones because they go with everything, a black tie for formal events, and a tie that I find most useful is a 42 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

navy blue one with dots. Pocket squares make a big difference as well, and it’s not something you’d spend a lot of money on. We live in an age where dress codes are being broken down. How can men keep a balance? A lot of it comes from fabric choices and also the silhouette of the jacket. You want things that are more versatile, that have a bit more texture, and maybe high twist yarns that have a natural stretch to them so you can move around. The shoulders have less and less shoulder padding; it’s just ways to soften up a silhouette. You can wear jeans and a polo shirt with a jacket; you’ll still look put-together, but it’s also a casual look. If you tend to have things that are on the shiny side, it becomes a bit more formal. The number of possibilities of wearing that shrinks down. From a design point of view, what patterns do you gravitate toward? We stick with something that’s a bit more classic—stripes, checks. But of course, every new season, we work with mills. There’s always some slight twists on classic patterns that we look for, like checks that are a little bit offset, giving customers something different without being too crazy.

How do you keep things new for the clients when you create things that are made to last? Trends do change, so perhaps a couple of years ago, they got a collar that’s small, Diorstyle, with a really skinny tie, and now the trend is it’s getting a bit bigger again. So in terms of the suit, you can propose small changes that can make a big difference. For example, my previous suits were in by about a quarter of an inch on each side. This time, I tried to make it a quarter of an inch wider, and immediately I can tell the difference. Less of the skinny suit, but a bit wider, which is a good thing for guys who want to look more masculine. What new patterns are you offering this season? We see stripes coming back—big, thick stripes. When we see trends shifting, we see bold iterations of something. So when checks came back 10 years ago, you started seeing bold checks. So now, we see a lot of brands bringing in bold stripes. Another trend we’re seeing is one-pleat trousers. On the extreme side of fashion, you see guys with double pleats. We do need to know those are coming in because those are things that our customers will ask for in the near future. n

ASCOT CHANG IS AVAILABLE AT RUSTAN’S MAKATI, AYALA CENTER, MAKATI; 813-3739; ASCOTCHANG.COM

THE

ROGUE REGISTER

PAUL SYJUCO The jeweler on reboots, revolutions, and rock ‘n’ roll INTERVIEW BY JACS T. SAMPAYAN

PORTRAIT BY PATRICK SEGOVIA . FOR MORE INFORMATION ON MODERNE AND THE JEWELER’S OTHER CREATIONS, VISIT PAULSYJUCO.COM

When you’ve been designing for as long as Paul Syjuco, you’d probably be itching for a reboot, too. The third generation jeweler and trained gemologist has been working on his craft professionally since the late 90s and, over the years, built a name for himself and his respected brand, Aum. But Syjuco felt he needed to rework his brand identity, so he sought out and collaborated with art director Isabel Gatuslao. The result: “Aum by Paul Syjuco, Fine Jeweler,” a graphic execution that makes use of a new typeface and the designer’s signature purple shade. To go with this revamp is “Moderne,” Syjuco’s recent collection inspired by the wild and colorful city of Barcelona and the Spanish Modernista movement. “To see Barcelona and experience the architecture and designs that were and still are incredibly beautiful, this was when I felt that it wasn’t just a movement, but a true radical revolution,” he says. What was your earliest ambition? To be a musician, i.e. guitarist in a rock band. What is your most treasured possession? My skill. Who are your favorite writers? Haruki Murakami1 , Woody Allen. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Making it this far. Wherever it may be. What would you like to own that you don’t currently possess? More air miles. What drives you on? Curiosity. What are you working on now? Firming up ideas for next year’s collection. What time of day are you most inspired? Midmorning to early afternoon. Favorite hotel? The Peninsula. Necessary extravagance? I will pay for comfort. Favorite city in the world? Tokyo. Favorite country?  Philippines. Favorite airline? Singapore Airlines. Ideal playlist? A fun one. Favorite artists? Egon Schiele3 , Gustav Klimt2 , Yves Klein. Favorite actors? Leo impresses as of late. Favorite gadget? iPhone. Favorite car?  I like the evolution of the Porsche 911. Favorite fitness activity? Tennis. Where do you live? Manila. Neighborhood restaurant? Chung Mi Rae. Favorite cocktail? I don’t drink anymore, but I wouldn’t mind a Vermouth. If that’s even a cocktail. Favorite athlete? Roger Federer. Sports team you root for? New England Patriots. Favorite book? Around the World in Eighty Days. Book you’re currently reading? The Intelligent Investor. Barely making a dent. Favorite TV show? Conan. Favorite movie? Coming to America. Favorite dish? This is impossible. Favorite jeans? Uniqlo selvedge6 . Favorite footwear? Monk straps. Favorite watch? A Vulcain from my grandfather. Favorite designers or brands? Taffin, Cartier4 , JAR. Wallet or money clip? Wallet. Favorite cologne? Jo Malone5 . What’s the funniest thing you’ve seen today? These questions. What was your last social media post about? A rubellite and emerald ring I made. Quite beautiful. What’s next on your bucket list? The world. n

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P R O M O T I O N

Men On The Move

SID MADERAZO PHOTOGRAPHED BY OF MIGUEL CALAYAN; JAMES DEAKIN AND STEPHEN KU PHOTOGRAPHED BY REDGE HAWANG

Effective design keen on addressing real world needs has always been Briggs and Riley’s priority. Combining function and quality, their luggage makes travel easier and more efficient

For these three gentlemen whose life involves constant traveling, Briggs and Riley’s latest innovations complement their dynamic lifestyles.

h JAMES DEAKIN

h STEPHEN KU

Life for TV commercial director Sid can be very hectic. Jumping from one project to another, he often travels for shoots and likes bringing his cameras and laptop with him. That’s why he needs a versatile luggage that gives easy access to his gadgets.

Being a journalist and host requires a lot of travel for James. As an “easygoing traveler,” he likes to keep it light and finds great value in a suitcase that allows convenient and easy packing when he’s on-the-go.

As an entrepreneur, venture builder, events engineer, and the man behind Caveman Travels, Stephen spends a good half of his year traveling. In these various trips, a trusty luggage that can adjust to his ever-changing needs is key.

“Traveling is one big adventure, and for me it starts as soon as I step on the airport.”

“Traveling is a big part of me. I do it so often that I have learned to build my work into it.”

“Traveling is life. It’s all about hunting for experiences and gathering memories.”

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SID MADERAZO

October 2017

Edited by

JEROME GOMEZ

THE SLANT

Issue

114

PHOTOGRAPH BY JILSON TIU

OPINIONS + IDEAS + PERSPECTIVES

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N E L S O N A . N AVA R R O

PAT RICK PA E Z

LILIANNA MANAHAN

A Filipino wedding at the grand and historic Opera Garnier in Paris sparks questions about the art of flaunting over the years, and the necessity of its practice in the Duterte era

The physical Manila is all about grime and grit and the absence of real urban planning, its design created more by the masses who use it. But so what? Maybe therein lies its unique charm

For five days last September, three Filipino designers flew back to the Czech Republic, rekindling friendships with its glassmakers and its bucolic life

Phantoms at the Opera

Beauty and Madness

The Glass Menagerie

01

Nelson A. Navarro

on the pointlessness of flaunting

PHANTOMS AT THE OPERA A Filipino wedding at the Opera Garnier in Paris sparks questions on the necessity of flaunting in an age where one’s audience ain’t all that

Manila. It has always been the grand obsession of anybody with the vaguest connection to Marie Antoinette, as in “Let them eat cake” minus the guillotine chop. Paris, la Ville Lumière of misty gaslights and assignations, long before New York of “I’ll see you at the top of the Empire State,” was the city of final arrival, as in Garbo’s “I vanna ve alone” a la Grand Hotel or Camille, again minus dreadful consumption or courtesan’s terminal loneliness. Neither tragedy nor irony gets in the way of perpetually dizzy Manila’s fantasies. Not Diana slamming into that fatal tunnel at 200 kilometers per hour. Or ex-hunk Brando’s last tango with his margarined finger. Or the macabre and dark happenings in Phantom of the Opera because, by the way, it has the perfect transvestite theme songs, swaying chandelier and all, and a colossal, all-time Broadway hit, at that. Whoever conceived of a dream wedding to top all weddings Manila cannot but drool about long before, giddily during, and long, long after the cat was out of the bag and the carping began—who, of real consequence, would actually bother to come? What splash beyond the hagiographers, their selfies and know-all superlatives of a city they first saw on discounted bus tours? Or let’s be kind: isn’t this really nothing more than some poor little rich girl making up for a lonely childhood and life’s cruel blows? Why Paris? It’s there, and the lady can afford it. First, the requisite hype—entre nous discreet, but breast-beating loud anyway. Whoever runs the glossiest of glossies, the gushiest lifestyle sections, the most bejeweled charity ball, must be conscripted into the operations. And they promptly came aboard, along with the flattered owners. Aha, who gets to go and who pays the airfare and hotels? These are not Arab sheiks blowing three million bucks to fly and pamper their friends first class. Not if you made every dime by doing face-tummy tucks over so many years

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PHOTOGRAPH BY TIBOR BOGNÁR VIA GET TY IMAGES

FLAUNTING HAS NEVER been a crime in

Isn’t this really nothing more than some poor little rich girl making up for life’s cruel blows? Why Paris? It’s there and the lady can afford it. of humiliating personal salesmanship and exchange deals out of desperate housewives of the dollar-pinching Balikbayan variety. Let’s be practical and stick to expenses that can be passed on. Limit the guests to those who can afford or command expense accounts. Who goes there anyway in bloody August, has enough mileage to fly business class, owns or rents a pied-à-terre somewhere in the Seventh, Eighth, or Sixteenth, or could get deep discounts at the Crillon, Bristol, Ritz, Meurice, George V? A pretty tall order, but one that draws the line on the handful of truly rich, the few dozen wannabes who freeload one way or the other and know the magic of Agoda or AirBnB, and the obligatory muscles to do production and mind the cargo. The list gets tricky when you divide the house. It used to be a no-brainer; those whom the Quezons chose above many others made up the peerage or House of Lords. They survived into the Second Empire of the Marcoses, give or take a few Lopezes who couldn’t pass for Lagdameos or Floirendos, or Aquinos who can’t be counted among the correct Cojuangcos. Even well into the 30 years of Cory, FVR, Erap, GMA, and the unlamented son, there were whiffs of that perfumed crowd, if not some ga-ga retainers at Malacañang balls or state visits. But under the present Duterte dispensation, zilch. Nada y nadie. Ever heard of Medialdeas, Zimmermans, Evascos, or remotely-Quezon Avanceñas? In fairness, it’s said that these folks disdain anything out of Davao. In the Quezon glory days, you were “it” because, before Uncle Sam’s benediction, as Philippine National Bank head, not just Senate President, El Mestizo, in the manner of a Tudor or Hanoverian king, granted your granddad coal contracts, cement deals, ship loans, and, naturally, sugar quotas and soft loans (later known as behest) that turned provincial flunkies into nobility. Very filthy rich, at that. Think of the Yulo grande dame who orchestrated the gatherings Don Manolo and Doña Aurora always attended, whether at the palace or Calle Peñafrancia. If you weren’t there, you did not belong or had been shown the door. The Balai Puti days of her Cubao brother came long after the war mellowed and led her into convent-like devotion to the charities of the Oblates. Figure that out. Of the drop-dead Ilonggo Kahirup balls, imagine also the Mancomunidad of their Kapampangan rivals who resurrected from wartime gloom during the brief Dadong and Eva reign. This was the height of huge diamond or emerald everything set off by glitzy ball gowns, peacock feathers and all, of Ramoning and Pitoy which have never, never been repeated, much less topped after the first Marcos administration. But there was also the more fun-loving post-war “high society” troika of Chito, Luis,

and Conching, which gave Manila a gauche semblance of Windsor magic (Night in Venice, Arabian Nights)—not of the sugar and coconut trades or the reparations racket, but of the Edward and Wallis kind, before the Abdication. After the First Quarter Storm, the society set was all but kaput. Imeldific made up for the deficit by going world-class, or so her claque believed. The Lopezes in their ruby splendor only brought in dethroned Bulgarians and Yugoslavs, whom they fished out of genteel penury in Estoril because not a single pretender Bourbon would bite. HRH The Princess Margaret, sister of Her Majesty The Queen, Imeldific did snag along with Juan Carlos and Sofia, restored by the dying Franco to the long-vacant Spanish throne. Otherwise, she collected free-loading society flotsam like Dame Margot, Van Cliburn, George Hamilton, and Cristina Ford, all of whom instantly vanished into thin air after the Marcoses lost power in 1986. Indeed, the EDSA years finished off what remained of the old and dying order. Setting apart “Old Wealth” from far wealthier arrivistes became a tedious exercise. Real estate speculations, bank consolidations, corporate mergers and acquisitions shifted the balance to monosyllabic celestials and local dummies of foreign cartels masquerading as benevolent tycoons, if recycled cronies and relatives. So you know where real money lies, almost never the names and faces you see on print. Society columnists of yore got reborn into publicists who, in the pre-social media age, by the mainstream power of photo spreads and gushing prose (now technology- and audiencechallenged), transformed never-heard ducklings into white swans. Pawnshop owners and boutique merchants turned into honorary consuls and overnight society matrons, often one and the same, by the proverbial dozens. Nip-and-tuck zillionaires they could only crown and gleefully did. What’s the big hullabaloo? Hardly anything worth the pointless hair-splitting. Like fake or real news, they’re all amusing and exasperating. So some loaded ones of fairly recent provenance want to splurge in Paris. Has anybody else from this neck of the woods ever dared to stage such a travesty there? For the record, Kokoy’s daughter did marry into a former president’s low-profile family some forgettable years ago. The Romualdez saving grace was self-restraint, probably more on the French side and because the Filipinos then were in lingering disgrace. If Imeldific was there at all, the spotlight wasn’t on her. Indeed, there was no spotlight. No champagne cocktails on touristy Bateaux Mouches, no American Church for non-Americans, no Opera Garnier for crass Broadway types. Last August’s headliners in their own minds were as different as different can ever be. Vive La Différence! n

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02

Patrick Paez

on Manila as avant garde

BEAUTY AND MADNESS The physical Manila is a picture of grime, chaos, and inequality, created not by architects but by the masses whose plight the governments past and present continue to ignore—and maybe therein lies its great beauty

MANILA HAS BEEN called many names: Gates of hell. Armpit of Asia. City with the worst airport—for years, consecutively. But avant-garde? Jaime Hayon, a Spanish designer, does not share the dystopian view. In a recent visit to Manila (his first), he saw the decay of the old city that is deeply rooted from the last war. He also saw the booming side of town, BGC, where his furniture designs for the Danish company Fritz Hansen are on sale. He was amused that he could pick out familiar words in English and Spanish from conversations overheard from locals. I sensed no sarcasm from Hayon when he called Manila “avantegarde” in his interview with Daphne (full disclosure: my wife; you can find the interview online). It was an insight that only a non-Anglo would get. Search for Hayon’s work online and you’ll see why “playful” and “happy” are words the artist and designer wants used when describing them. It’s a vibe that Hayon probably saw in the carefree attitude of Filipinos, who live in less than ideal conditions. Manila has many things that are still unlike neighboring Asian megacities. It starts the moment the visitor lands. Airports from Bangkok to KL to Changi have the same architecture: open, white, with flying steel beams that mimic a circus tent. My sister, a Manhattanite and serial traveler, likes landing at the NAIA simply because it does not look like every other airport on the planet today. (It would be a shame if we tore down that brutalist monument built by Marcos and now dedicated to Ninoy Aquino for another that looks like Terminal 2 or 3.) We move then into the same central business districts, with carefully planned street-level coffee shops and the faux hipster interiors of subway tiles, chalkboard menus, and industrial furniture—none of which any of us in the region had in the distant past. To be sure, cities around us retain their Asianness. Outside of gentrified districts, your gustatory cravings will only be satisfied by 50 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

local cuisine. Not here. Organic in Manila is blended, never single origin, to borrow from barista language. This is evident in Bangkal, the working class district of Makati, my favorite neighborhood of late. It is known mostly for secondhand (chop-chop) automotive parts and segunda mano furniture. Lately, Bangkal has seen interesting food places where you might expect just another corner turo-turo. There’s Kanto, a Japanese carinderia that serves everything you might want from a regular Japanese restaurant, except it is located at a bangketa. Two corners away, a former sari-sari store has diversified into a pita stall. A few blocks away is a Swiss deli that serves great pasta, wine, and cheese, and still further away is Bailon’s— you’ll probably miss the signage, but will remember this restaurant once you’ve tried their Ilonggo-style empanadas (the best by far) and freshly baked piyayas. All of them are nondescript and unpretentious. They’re not cool, ironic, nor contrived. I don’t think they aim to serve a bigger market other than their neighborhood. Which brings me to Jane Jacobs. My wife, who’s been geeking out recently on urban planning, first introduced me to the American author and activist during our early dates (I listened only because new boyfriends are patient and polite). Jacobs was not a fan of the great American dream: a car plus a suburban home with white picket fence. She saw in it the death of American cities. Jacobs moved to Toronto, where she felt her belief in keeping streets alive would be better appreciated and still had a chance of becoming a reality. Jacobs proved correct. (She’s also being touted lately as having foreseen the rise of Trump, but that’s another long story.) By the 70s, decay had set in the big American cities. I still caught a glimpse of NYC in 1987, when Times Square was a derelict hangout of peep shows, streetwalkers, and crack dealers. But as urban populations rise around the world, Jacobs’s vision of livable cities is taking root. Times Square has been Disneyfied and NYC

may soon run out of neighborhoods to be gentrified. It’s not artists or an emerging creative class that’s behind the gentrification of Manila’s neighborhoods. Our streets are alive with entrepreneurial activity that’s organic and not always driven by big developers. There is no master planning in the rise of foodie neighborhoods on Maginhawa Street, Barangay Kapitolyo, Poblacion, or Bangkal. In my hunt for bargain-priced stereos, I was lured one evening into the side streets of Lower Bicutan, Taguig, where a seller lived. Waze does not tell drivers which corners are impassable because shirtless men are having happy hour. I found myself meekly excusing my car every time I inconvenienced a tagayan because they had to move aside to let me pass. In hindsight, the slight terror I felt was misplaced. Not everyone out in the streets at night is up to no good. I drove by little kids and teenage girls as well… in a sense, this also passed for what Jane Jacobs called “street life.” Residents in poorer communities have usurped whatever open space there is for their social life. Drive around any Sunday morning and you will find pockets of people jogging, biking, and doing the Zumba. Where there are no parks or open public spaces, they occupy the street or parking lots.

DANCING IN THE STREET

The young photographer Jilson Tiu, a regular contributor to Rogue, offers a perspective of Manila distinctly different from the ordinary street photographer. With clear affection for his milieu, his pictures find the little joys that Manila life offers if you just pay attention, capturing the grit and grime of the landscape without romanticizing them, and never crossing the line to poverty porn.

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY JILSON TIU

IN VIVID COLOR

Christmastime in Manila is heralded by the sprouting of lantern vendors on busy streets.

Metro Manila is one of the densest places on this planet—almost 20,000 people per square kilometer. It was 15,000 in the year 2000. The numbers give a grim picture of a social volcano about to erupt. But the usual economic and social indicators probably don’t apply. I’m reminded of an old interview with Aprodicio Laquian, an urban studies professor at the University of British Columbia in Canada and President Estrada’s shortlived executive secretary (he was fired for joking, “At 4 am, I’m the only sober person in the room.”). Reflecting on the Philippines while on a fellowship at MIT in 1999, Laquian said that if a violent revolution were to happen, it would’ve happened a long time ago: in 1898 during the Katipunan revolt, or two years after, when Aguinaldo returned and founded the republic; or in EDSA 1986. Those were revolutions only in name, but not when measured in bloodshed or by a radical departure from the old order. By the same measure, if this country is really going to the dogs, we would’ve been there already. So, in place of violent revolution, we have an intractable criminality; in place of radical change, we have a constant rigodon of old and new faces in government. But Laquian was not being facetious. Despite his tragic stint in government, he was optimistic: in 50 years, he

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said, the Philippines will experience dramatic progress. Simply put, we’ve taken the slow boat. A fastcraft would’ve taken us there already, but it would’ve been costly, even traumatic. (I’ve lately felt that the Americans left too early. Look at Singapore and HK—the British left on their own time; not in Burma, though. Haiti is even more tragic: they threw out the French ahead of everybody and today remain the basket case of the Caribbean.) Hayon and Laquian’s views tell us we should start looking at things differently. That old thesis about our “damaged” culture now sounds like the ranting of a racist and xenophobe. We soak up influences from all over, lavish visitors, and bow to invading superior forces. When foreign occupations all ended, 10 million Filipinos dispersed to all directions across the globe. Most will eventually return and bring home new attitudes and fresh mindsets from some of the best societies they worked in. Ours has always been an open, free society—virtues now extolled by world capitals that recognize the talent and creative pool that come from migration. Our cuisine, for instance, is nothing like what they have in Malaysia, Indonesia, and Singapore, precisely because theirs is so alike and ours is oddly different. Even the way our

homes look has gone through phases of foreign influence. The colorful Spanish-era bahay na bato were influenced by Mexico, which was once upon a time our home province. By the 90s, Mediterranean style set in, followed next by ersatz universal-style architecture of glass houses that proved heat traps in a country like ours. Lately, the new catchword in design is Mid-Century, which is a more sensible return to the architecture of Manila homes in the 60s. When archeologists of future ages ask why there is a “Versailles” subdivision in Las Piñas, they will probably conclude that Filipinos were a well-traveled, sophisticated people. We were globalized long before neoliberals thought of it as an economic policy. The physical Manila is a picture of grime, chaos, and inequality. Its non-physical side shows people seizing opportunities and making the best of a situation. Nothing can be more laissez-faire than Manila, where anything goes and everything is negotiable—for bad, also for better. Perhaps that’s what Hayon means by “avant-garde”—drop all expectations, forget all you know about how things ought to be. Damaged culture is still culture. Manila walks on the wild side, to borrow from Lou Reed. Like a radical idea, if you don’t get it at first, eventually, everybody will. n

PHOTOGRAPH BY JILSON TIU

When archaeologists of future ages ask why there is a “Versailles” subdivision in Las Piñas, they will probably conclude we are a well-traveled, sophisticated people.

03

Lilianna Manahan

on blowing glass in the Czech Republic

THE GLASS MENAGERIE Blowtorches, spooky pubs, mushroom-picking—all in a day’s work for three Filipino designers who traveled across the globe to Czechia to make glass objet d’art

IT’S THE END of summer in Czechia. It’s 4:30 am and still dark out, 9 degrees cold. My alarm goes off about three times as I get myself geared up for the day. I take a nice, warm shower and get dressed, pack my sketchbook, pencil case, and beef jerky to snack on. For the next six days, it is here, in the breakfast room at the top floor of a 200-year-old semi-spooky pub, in the glassmaking region of Czechia, where our day starts. It is our second visit to here where I and my co-designers, Gabby Lichauco and Stanley Ruiz, have the privilege of working with the people I consider the finest glassmakers in the world. This partnership is the brainchild of Stephanie Frondoso, who is also with us on this trip. It is called Spektacularis, a platform that connects Asian artists and Czech glass masters to collaborate and bring a new perspective to an ancient craft. When Stephanie and Gabby told me about it, it only made sense to say yes.

BLOWN AWAY FORENSIC EXE

Recreations of some of the data scrubbed from the social media accounts of the Department of Budget and Management. Right:

The author just outside the glass studio in Kunratice in Czechia, among the day’s harvest of Gabby Lichauco’s glass objects that belong to a series called “Pinch The Bublinka.”

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The three of us each had different approaches. The language barrier was not an issue because the drawings surpassed what words could not explain.

By 5:30 am, we head down the creaky stairs and meet our master glassblower and now friend, Jiri Pacinek. To us, he is Paca, who greets us with a hearty, operatic “Ciao! Good morning!” before we head out for the 15- to 20-minute ride to his workshop. As the conversation in the car slowly starts to pick up, the flashes of pine trees and the sight of dark blue hues smeared with thick fog in the windows, spattered with pinks from the rising sun, allow my brain to gradually reboot for the day. We pull up at the workshop and there we meet our team, ready for the day’s challenges. We work like a tag team: us three Asian designers would each have our turn making our pieces with the four Czech artisans, headed by Paca. Before working on a concept, each designer makes his or her way around a drawing that we explain to Paca, and he, being the head of the team, would assign each person specific instructions. It is easier to explain what we have in mind this time around because last year’s visit allowed us to take a crash course on glass. The glassmakers also have a better idea of how to make our pieces, and we were pleasantly shocked to see that their execution had been twice, even thrice as fast. The 54 O C T O B E R 2 0 1 7

language barrier was not a problem because the drawings surpassed what we could not fully explain. The three of us each had different approaches. Stanley’s seemingly simple and minimalistic, organic-looking figures challenged the natural instincts of the glassmakers’ reflexes to make everything come out symmetrical. His aim was to “implement a simple disruption to their process.” The glassmaker would have to spin the glass pipe at a constant speed to achieve symmetry. They had to stop at times and allow gravity to do its work on the hot glass to form the asymmetrical blobs. All of the pieces were made so they could be joined perfectly with wooden parts. Precision on both craft processes for wood and glass were needed to form the Brancusi-like sculptures. This year, Gabby challenged Paca and his team further. His initial idea was to insert a foreign piece into the glass as it was being shaped. But after talking to Petr, Paca’s right hand man, Gabby found it would not be possible, since a foreign object would create force in the cooling stage that might destroy the whole piece. This led Gabby to think of the idea of force. What he ended up

doing after taking a few strolls around the neighborhood to clear his mind was to insert one glass piece into a glass bubble without breaking its wall. As for me, I was continuing my idea from last year, where I took reference from existing techniques found in glassmaking throughout history. I used these techniques to illustrate Bible verses found in Psalm 139, which tell of how God has specially made all of us in a specific way, for a specific purpose, before creation. The art objects depict milestones and memories in my life being formed, all frozen in a state of flux. I would have to explain to Paca that we would be continuing this concept, meaning his big, burly men would still be making delicate glass chocolates with icing, glass flowers, and little glass feet with red nail polish, which would then be stuck to a twisted rod of glass, now fondly called the bituka. Seeing as they had perfected making the bituka, we had time to experiment with other existing techniques, focusing on the historical glass and Mid-Century eras which we applied to a variety of vessels to form another collection. There was always something to learn, watching each other’s work go through the

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

A bucolic environment surrounded the workshop that hosted the three designers from the Philippines. Above: Stanley Ruiz explains his ideas in their daily huddles, a prelude to the day’s blow-torching activities. Below: Gabby Lichauco sketching his next piece. Opposite, from left: the glass studio in Lindava, a favorite spot for short naps; and Lichauco checking the day’s output with Jiri Pacinek.

creation process. And each time the huddle would break, I knew that in a matter of minutes, the design that was just sketched on paper would come to life. I am mesmerized by the rhythm they move in around the workshop, which was always to the tune of Czech covers of American 80s and 90s rock music blasting from the radio. Each person in the team executes their particular task, all handling blowpipes about 1.5 meters long, tipped with molten glass, without ever bumping into each other. It could only be because they have been shaping glass for at least 15 to 20 years. And also, because of this, they can make mind-blowing pieces in minutes. They are trained rigorously to make everything— from thousands of pieces of the same shape, which cultivates discipline, or to express their own creativity through art pieces, which enables them to open up to challenges such as our concepts. They are experts in reading the material. They know how fast the glass cools just by the feel and look of it. They know when to manipulate and when to leave the glass alone and let it do the work. Each worked to their own rhythm: Paca with big, strong strokes. His son, Paca Jr., looked always at ease. While some, like Petr, Paca’s apprentice, worked with swift conviction. Perhaps it is the passion and respect for the craft that drives them to accept the challenge of concepts they encounter for the first time. It is the satisfaction gained from seeing that the concept can be done, and knowing that they have gained a little

more skill, that motivates them to continue exploring the molten material. That moment between seeing your finished piece glisten at the end of the blowpipe and getting the approval that everything is good to go is a period of fulfillment both for designer and glass maker. Then you hear the sound of the gentle tippy-tap of Paca’s metal tweezers releasing the glass from the pipe to the hands of his assistant. I nervously munch on my beef jerky as I watch him walk over to the annealer and carefully place the piece in for cooling. By 10 am, I’m well into the groove of the day, which has gotten warmer. The 80s music is still playing and my mind is concocting more ideas. Once in a while, a visitor or two drops by: a woodworker, a master glass engraver, or the occasional construction worker who needs to light his cigarette with the blowtorch. They were all greeted with a warm “Ahoj!” (Pronounced “Ahoy,” which means “Hello!”) It was in the simple charm of the atmosphere and surroundings that we found wonder to fuel the creative process throughout the day. We could rummage through the workshop and find tools and molds to work with. We could walk around the area and sniff in the fresh air. There was a variety of gingerbread-looking houses to see, some of them where legends like Borek Sipek lived in the summer, with some dating back to about 200 years. We could spot sunflowers in the neighbor’s backyard twice my height, and then later on be energized to sketch outdoors, or take a nap next to the little brook by the workshop. Since work ended early—at 2 pm—most days we would head back to the main town where our pub/home was and explore. There was the Ajeto Glass School and Museum, where you could watch glass being made and have a meal. We could easily be having merienda next to a glass master like Petr Novotný (who happened to be Paca’s mentor) as he took a beer break. We would walk the main street almost every day to do our routine grocery run and dinner, our diet consisting of different kinds of meats, homemade potato dumplings, goulash, and Kofola, the Czech version of Coca-Cola invented behind the Iron Curtain. One afternoon, we had time to go mushroom-picking in the nearby forest with Paca and Paca Jr. What a sight it was to see four Pinoys in a lush Czech forest, trying to figure out the difference between a good and a poisonous mushroom. Downtime such as this was when we were able to share stories about how different our cultures and countries were. We got to hear stories about the living legend, René Roubíček, a glass designer whom Paca’s mentor Petr Novotný, then Paca, and now Paca Jr., shapes for. We shared the struggles and good moments we had as artists and designers. Laughter and food bridged the gap quickly. Since our visit last year, our work already had the privilege of being shown in Singapore, Milan Design Week, and most recently, the Cesky Centre in Prague. While another thing that binds us together is that we have no clue where these merging of talents and cultures will eventually lead, it is amazing to see that, by simply keeping an open mind and leaving out hesitation, things would lead to such a curious and wonderful collaboration. n

OCTOBER 2017

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The new and emerging designers of today find themselves in fields both stubbornly beholden to tradition and perpetually on the lookout for the next great trend. Rogue visits the creative spaces of seven rising talents unfazed by the demands of their industries and more than ready to leave their mark, whether or not the world is ready for them

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ARCHITECT

arts serrano Outside the Escolta office of Arts Serrano’s architecture studio One/zero is a view of Old Manila in all its dignity. He and his partners worked hard to secure this space overlooking history—building capital by entering in various architecture competitions—but Serrano doesn’t feel entitled to anything. “It’s not about the architect,” he states. In its relative youth, One/zero has already taken on various projects ranging from residences to creative spaces, like Escolta’s The HUB: Make Lab and a project in Karrivin, Makati, which aims to reimagine the corner panaderia. In all this, Serrano believes that client is king. “Hindi ako naniniwala na architects should have a specific style they conform to,” he explains. “I don’t think [it] should be about the studio.” Serrano is simply there to crowdsource ideas from his clients—helping them transform each space into what they need it to be. And while Serrano doesn’t think the local architecture scene is at its best just yet, the respect he has for his craft remains intact. “Every time I look out the windows, I see an almost centuries-old narrative,” he says of Escolta. “It’s that kind of effect that I want to capture in what I do.” –EMIL HOFILEÑA

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FASHION DESIGNER

diorelle sy Diorelle Sy clarifies that all the Elvis memorabilia in her attic belongs to her mother. Still, her family’s love for sharply dressed men found its way into her life, too. She credits looks from The Stone Roses, The Rolling Stones, and A Clockwork Orange as inspirations for her distinct brand of menswear. Sy’s work occupies a common ground between suits and streetwear, and tailoring and patchwork. Despite being absent from fashion for a long time, she hasn’t lost her footing; her voice clearly comes through in the outfits she’s designed for Bench and Slim’s Fashion and Arts School. “It’s the final look,” Sy explains. “That’s always my first thought. Then I work backwards to what the client requires. But the first thing I consider is the mood you’re setting with the outfit.” Sy understands that a lot of men want to dress like Mick Jagger, but she knows there’s more to men than tight suits. –EMIL HOFILEÑA

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TAT TO O A RT I S T

gigie santiago “Do you have any tattoos?” Gigie Santiago asks. She’s just shown us seven of hers—an unfinished carousel horse, several flowers, a stylized Kewpie Baby, and a classic red rose. Her first tattoo was the traditional sparrow on her back—she was 18 years old when she got it from a college friend. After getting her Fine Arts degree from the University of Santo Tomas, and a short stint as a graphic designer, Santiago learned to tattoo from her boyfriend and then worked at 55 Tinta in Quezon City. Santiago now occupies her own little studio in Project 4. The walls are decorated with posters and art, while the back of her door is covered with small sheets, all of them designs. “I usually do blackwork tattoos,” she says. “Florals, botanicals, dotwork.” These have become her signature. There are mandalas, too, and even a panel from a Manix Abrera comic, with a tiny figure looking out at the Banaue Rice Terraces. The intricacies of each require an attention to detail both painstaking and meditative. “Minsan, ginagawa ko iyong design on the spot, ’pag nakita ko na ang tao,” Santiago says. Her process is inherently intimate, learning the stories behind the ink. A huge dragonfly across a woman’s chest, for her greatest love; an X-ray of a spine on a leg, for a woman whose best friend has scoliosis. Those who walk in rarely come out with exactly what they initially wanted, the design made better through conversation, only finalized after Santiago feels out their aura. “Linalagay ko talaga ng sariling touch,” she continues. In an art as permanent as this, there isn’t more you can ask for. –PATRICIA CHONG 59

FURNITURE DESIGNER

mickey lu Mickey Lu takes us deep into his family’s metalworks factory in Caloocan until we arrive at a small corner full of wooden furniture. It’s the perfect visual metaphor: Lu’s family wants him to dedicate himself to the family business, but furniture design is all he’s wanted to do for years. “The initial perception from them is there’s not much money [in furniture],” Lu says. “The main challenge is for them to see that it’s a viable alternative to what they’re doing.” So after taking up Information Design, Graphic Design, and a course on furniture design at the SoFA Design Institute, Lu officially established startup studio Fabricca Manila just a few months back. And he’s definitely proven himself so far: Fabricca’s work can be seen at The Den in Manila, Blocleaf Cafe in Malate, NAIA Terminal 3, and the National Museum. Lu knows that he wants to create products that respect the material he uses. But with regard to an all-encompassing design philosophy, he humbly states that he’s still learning. “I think the main concern,” he says, “is just being able to finish.” – EMIL HOFILEÑA

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INTERIOR DESIGNER

martina bautista The door to Martina Bautista’s playground is pink. A wide space in her family’s duplex, the room is a mélange of meticulously restored furniture found on long drives in her truck. Two armchairs have been reupholstered in deep green velvet, while four office chairs are decked out in patterned teal and lime. “I love color,” Bautista declares. “I know the goal right now is an all-white space, but there’s something about what you add to it.” Not long after Bautista’s life-changing first visit to Manila FAME in elementary, she impulsively painted her sisters’ bedroom hot pink. After formally taking up interior design at the College of St. Benilde, she’s been careful about tailoring her tastes to those of her clients. “That’s the difference between a designer and somebody who does it as a hobby,” she says. “A designer takes the brief, the personality of the client, and turns it into something still within their taste.” The greatest compliment for her is free rein. Beyond color, Bautista makes no other distinction for herself in her work, from homes to commercial spaces like those of Float Swimwear, Trigo Bakery, and Roomful of Learners. “I love imagining the lives people will lead in the spaces I build,” she explains. “My design philosophy is to design with the end user in mind.” –PATRICIA CHONG

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PRODUCT DEVELOPER

cara sumabat After working with Rajo Laurel and studying at Parsons School of Design, Cara Sumabat discovered that her hobby of crafting things on the side had blossomed into something much more valuable and lucrative. “I actually don’t consider myself a designer,” she explains. “I always feel like it’s just my fixation on making things more efficient.” Sumabat’s interests in creating lifestyle products soon became brands like Wabisabi and Pambahay, both of which were merged into the core brand of HALO HALO. Specializing in woven bags, mats, and ottomans made from recycled plastic, HALO HALO embraces the nostalgia and warmth of traditional banig weaves while placing the highest premium on functionality. “What’s the point of making something nice if you can’t really use it?” Sumabat asks. But Sumabat isn’t interested in chasing trends, or cornering a particular demographic. Her work is for everyone who values longevity and everyone who wants to invest in familiar, reliable products. “The fact that people are more accepting of things that are made with thought,” Sumabat says, “it’s nice to have that.” – EMIL HOFILEÑA

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BRAND & DESIGN STUDIO

the public school manila For the Escolta-based studio Public School Manila, run by graphic designer Vince Africa and former brand manager Reymart Cerin, their work is a matter of connecting the dots, communicating identity through an image. “When we design something, it’s very straightforward,” says Africa, who got his start with Team Manila. The studio draws inspiration from Japanese minimalism, with a use of color and texture in touch with their Filipino roots. “We only put in what we’re trying to communicate.” It’s their clientele that give the studio its name, from the Quirino Foundation and the Intramuros Administration to Nayong Pilipino. “We want to teach good design for the public to the public,” says Cerin, who holds the branding end with his product development experience. “Our advocacy is to help government agencies, NGOs, and start-ups with their design problems.” Their work rests heavily on a love for Manila itself, creating iDiscover’s map of Binondo and hosting the Escolta Block Party. Both are itching to create a new way-finding system for NAIA and the MRT. “Manila is very chaotic,” says Africa. “But at the same time, may potential siya. The more you’re exposed to this city, the more you think about what you want to solve.” –PATRICIA CHONG

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In

LIEU of

FLOWERS For close to three decades, there was only one name for Manila’s posh and pampered ladies when it came to flowers and dressing up their well-appointed homes: Ronnie Laing, the decorator who would help introduce beauty to post-war Manila, and whose stylings would bring life to the endless fetes the Marcoses would throw in and out of Malacañang. Jerome Gomez traces the rise of Imelda’s decorator and the murder that put an end to a dreamlike world

WHEN RONNIE LAING

it made the front page of the Philippine Daily Inquirer the day after, the news item positioned just above the paper’s bottom left corner. “Imelda’s decorator murdered at home,” the title declared. Accompanied by a faint black and white ID photograph of the 74-year-old British national, the report said he was “clubbed to death,” and was robbed of cash and jewelry by, at that time, unidentified men inside his 1194 Santol Street estate in Quezon City. Laing’s bodyguard found his body, amidst a room clearly violated, all in a shambles, with an attaché case “forcibly unlocked” lying in the crime scene. He died on the spot, the item added, from injuries in the head and various parts of his body, likely pounced on by a hard object, “possibly a lead pipe.” It was a savage and ugly end for a man who had helped introduce beauty to post-war Manila, a city struggling to lift itself from almost nothing. While he is remembered best as the chief decorator during the years Imelda Marcos as First Lady held court in Malacañang, he achieved status as the Palace’s choice florist during the Macapagal era. His jewel box of a calling card was Ronnie’s Flower Shop on A. Mabini in Ermita, which he opened in 1957. “By the late 60s, he had become the style dictator of the city’s American ladies and Manila’s elite,” recalls Ross Harper Alonso in an article on Laing three years ago. “All parties, weddings, and home interiors had to be done by him. Corsages and gentlemen’s lapel carnations had to be ordered from Ronnie’s, including funeral wreaths, with his trademark of imported gold stickers spelling out the name of the deceased.” But it was indeed in the post-Macapagal dispensation that Laing would truly make his mark. The first big bash of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos was thrown on the Malacañang grounds in 1966 for the ASEAN Summit Leaders conference in Manila, and Laing pulled out all the stops, filling the frontyard of the executive mansion with white lanterns. Laing’s name would land in a story in Life Magazine, and the visiting Lyndon Johnson would be quoted as saying, “It was the biggest fiesta I had seen outside of Texas!” While he was Manila’s florist and decorator nonpareil for close to three decades, very little is known about Laing, and newspaper and magazine materials about him are rare, if altogether nonexistent. The few things that can be found online are recollections from those who had attended his dinners in his famously enchanting Santol residence, or whose parents had been clients. “Despite celebrities gracing his parties, there were rare or no photographs of these events in the society pages of newspapers and magazines,” recalls Alonso in her Inquirer story. Laing put a premium on his privacy, and his friends acknowledged this. “He also preferred not to make public the large collection of antiques and porcelain that filled his open-air house.” He, too, was not in the habit of documenting his floral arrangements or decorating projects. Most of the pictures that accompany this story come from the private collections of Laing’s workers, who live in a row of apartments the decorator left for them in Santol.

WHILE A PHILIPPINE STAR article on the city’s famous florists says

that Laing is a Scotsman by birth, the Inquirer story on him offers that he was born in Manila on June 19, 1915. During the Second World War, together with his Spanish mother Mercedes and his sibling Eric, the young Laing was detained at the Santo Tomas Internment Camp, the Inquirer goes on to say. The Star feature by Roberto Caballero, however, adds that Laing’s father abandoned him and Mercedes before

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mother and child arrived in Cebu from Scotland when the latter was 10 years old. “When the war broke out, Ronnie was detained in Los Baños and nearby forests, where his love and familiarity with flowers and foliage most likely flourished,” Caballero adds. Come Liberation, Laing, listed as a British POW, proceeded to San Francisco, where he would meet the love of his life in the person of Eddie Cavagnero. Cavagnero was a successful florist with top brass Hollywood clientele, including Marlene Dietrich. He would also do windows for tony establishments, like the department store Gump’s and the very chic flower shop Podesta Baldocchi, which would famously grace Alfred Hitchcock’s 1958 film, Vertigo. Laing’s friends remember Cavagnero to be an affable presence, and very down-to-earth. Laing’s workers in Santol remember he struck them as having the looks of Rock Hudson. Known for his green thumb, Cavagnero had the most beautiful collection of rare plants. “Gardening was his thing,” recalls the antique dealer Bingbing Nieto. “He liked planting a hillfull of daffodils in his farm abroad; that was his big thrill.” Having no real education in the decorative arts and floral styling, Laing was mentored by Cavagnero, who would agree to return with him to the Philippines and start a life together. It helped that the San Francisco florist was drunk in love with his protégé; late 50s Manila was a sick man still recovering, hardly a pretty sight to behold, much more a haven to migrate to. But the couple would create their own little dreamlike world, the beginnings of which would be the famed flower shop on A. Mabini. Nieto remembers a story about Laing and Cavagnero’s first Christmas in the store. The couple had chanced upon a lot of cogon grass and white flowers somewhere in the city, and so they filled the shop with them. The next morning, they discovered that all of the flowers had already fallen to the floor, but neither of the two seemed to mind. “He was so in love with Ronnie that he was seeing the world through rose-colored glasses,” recalls Nieto—Cavagnero’s words, Nieto adds. “It was a veritable winter garden,” Joey Panlilio recalls of Ronnie’s Flower Shop, which he would visit with his grandmother in his younger days. “It doesn’t mean snow ha, it’s all plants. It’s a garden in winter inside your home,” he says, to illustrate. He adds Laing would paint tree trunks in white, “so when you go in, it’s like a forest in white.” It was the go-to place for the city’s affluent ladies, especially toward Christmas, not only for the decor Laing would design himself, but because the shop carried a collection of fineries perfect for gifts— from candelabras to crystals to furniture, things one would usually only find in Rustan’s, the department store of his friend Glecy Tantoco. Like Mr. Laing, who always smelled nice (his scent was the sweetsmelling German cologne No. 4711, one of his workers would say), the flower shop was known for its fragrance. When Panlilio recalls his visits, it’s as if he can still smell the essence of fir and cypress that wafted in the air. Laing and Cavagnero estabished residence in Santol, on a lot they purchased from the Tuasons, whose ladies were their clients. The new couple initially built a small wooden house on stilts, Nieto tells Rogue. Of course the property would, as business grew, eventually expand into a four-hectare estate, and the house on stilts would be ditched for a largely open-air home and enchanted garden—a completely grand interpretation of bringing the outdoors in, if there ever was one. It was like a forest, says Nieto. They filled it with the most beautiful tropical plants and covered the floors in piedra china. A heavy cathedral

PHOTO ON PREVIOUS SPREAD COURTESY OF THE LOPEZ MUSEUM AND LIBRARY; INTERIOR PHOTOS COURTESY OF ROLANDO NACIONALES; PARTY PHOTO COURTESY OF CHERRY DIOLAZO; LAING PORTRAIT COURTESY OF JOFRE DUGURAN; SUNICO PHOTO BY JAMES BURKE, LIFE MAGAZINE, 1958.

DIED ON AUGUST 11, 1987,

DECORATION DAYS

While lacking formal education in the decorative arts, Laing was entrusted by Manila’s socialites to spruce up their homes. Clockwise from left: a decorating project for an unidentified client; a living room that boasted Laing’s regal and elegant selections; the young Ronnie with a friend; inside his walk-in closet wearing one of his favored longsleeved shirts with pointed collar; Conching Sunico, a Laing client, as featured in Life magazine, preparing for a garden party in her Malate address, 1958.

THE PATRONESS IN THE PALACE

The Marcoses were arguably Laing’s most important clients, having created the environments for the many dinners and parties the couple hosted in Malacañang. Opposite: the dreamland Laing created for the ruby wedding anniversary party of Iñing and Pacita Lopez.

SEEN, AND WHOSE AMBITION HAS NEVER BEEN REPLICATED SINCE door from a church in the province and a tall cement fence kept the neighbors’ eyes from peeking. Laing would host innumerable dinners for clients and friends in this urban paradise, and here, too, he would hold business operations, allotting a sizeable part of the property for housing his staff of more than a hundred. As the country slowly found its footing, so did Laing’s enterprise. In the late 60s, the city was in a party-throwing spree; there was a joke that if it was announced that the earth was to crack open at 8 o’clock that evening, Manileños would send out an invitation for an end-of-the-world fete for 7 pm the same night. The women of the city’s privileged set would depend on him, not only for their flower arrangement needs, but to put together their dinners and parties, even decorate their homes. Julieta Abad Rufino and Conching Sunico were among his top clients. He designed Chito Madrigal’s garden in Forbes Park. The memory of his vigil lamps covered in silver for the Minnie Osmeña-Joselito Jacinto “wedding of the century” lasted longer than the marriage, which ended six months later. Nieto, who grew up in a New Manila home dolled up by Laing, thinks the florist might have been influenced by Tony Duquette, the American interior designer, “the Merlin of the design world,” whose environments have been described as “magical.” 68

Although also known to have a mercurial temper—he liked to say “Coño!” when something got on his nerves—Laing had a mildmannered side that echoed the elegance and refinement of his arrangements. He had no known contemporaries who equaled his style: a kind of grandiosity that never crossed the line to extravagance. There were Juanita and Encarnacion Bechaves, but their designs did not possess Laing’s fresh approach. As Panlilio says, repeating a famous quote: “It always takes a sissy to make things pretty.” If there was a party to beat, it was the 1968 ruby wedding anniversary the industrialist Don Iñing Lopez threw for himself and his wife Pacita in their sprawling lawn in Parañaque, the list of attendees counting European royalty and 1,000 of the country’s VIPs. While it gained notoriety among critics protesting its extravagance at a time when many Filipinos could barely find jobs, the guests that descended on the Lopez grounds that January moved about in a universe entirely their own. Drummed up in the media particularly for its featured fountains that spouted champagne, the party had guests mesmerized as they exchanged handshakes and air-kisses in the wonderland Ronnie Laing had created, composed of an enormous pavilion in red and white, a statue of Neptune greeting the incoming guests, and 32,000 ruby lights filling the garden’s mango trees. It was a party

ON THIS PAGE: UNIVERSAL HISTORY ARCHIVE/UIG VIA GET TY IMAGES. OPPOSITE: COURTESY OF THE LOPEZ MUSEUM AND LIBRARY

IT WAS A PARTY MANILA HAS NEVER

Manila had never seen since the Liberation, and whose ambition has never been replicated, although some may have tried (namely Imelda Marcos, the new First Lady in the Palace, believed to have not been invited—along with her husband—to the Lopez ball). Mrs. Marcos, four years after, having been so inspired by the mindblowing and intensely-covered party she attended at Persepolis in 1971—which celebrated the 2,500th anniversary of the Persian empire, and which created a tent city just for the event—took Laing to the task of evoking a similar celebration, if not in magnitude, then certainly in touches here and there. The raison d’être was the Manila night of her first Manila International Film Festival. Twenty silk tents were put up by Laing’s workers inside Fort Santiago, recalls Panlilio, while the façade and main garden were wrapped in white lanterns and bamboo. The tables were swathed in white silk, a wealth of chestnuts filling their center. The local pakpak-lauins, or bird’s nest ferns, took the place of chandeliers, complemented by hanging plants such as the Manaog Ka Irog (hanging coin vine) and the threadlike bromeliad known as Buhok ni Ester. “Lahat ng lampposts binalutan ng white sputnik parols,” recalls Panlilio. “He really went to town with that one.” In the event local flora would not suffice and foreign ones were deemed necessary, Laing’s boys would drive to the Manila International Airport and fetch the flowers “galing sa puwet ng eroplano,” recalls Jofre Duguran, whose father worked for Laing. No need to pass through customs for official release, as the foreign items automatically came with imprimatur from the Palace. With the First Lady as primary client, Laing already had his hands full, what with the nonstop events and dinners, the houses that needed sprucing. He decorated the party in honor of the Prince and Princess of Spain’s visit to the Palace in 1974. And when Pope John Paul II was set to arrive in Manila, the entire walkway that faced the workers’ apartments in Santol was lined with sewing machines, all for the purpose of making the decorative touches needed for the pageantry of the papal visit. In 1983, not completely pleased with how the assigned decorator did her younger daughter Irene’s wedding

to Tommy Manotoc in Sarrat, Mrs. Marcos called on Laing and his workers for reinforcement.

THOSE WERE THE glory days of Laing’s enterprise, when the opera-

tions had five Ford Fieras, two Econovans, a pickup, three Ford trucks, and for himself, a red Thunderbird topdown. He became very wealthy, confirms Nieto, and was able to travel a lot. Business was so good, says one of his women workers, that every time their boss came home from a holiday in Hong Kong, everyone at the workshop sported new watches each. But he also knew the value of money, says Nieto, a lesson he learned from his mother who “sort of squandered their fortune because she used to overspend. Don’t buy everything you like because you’re going to lose your money,” Nieto recalls Laing telling him. Laing also knew how to give back to his workers. Included in his will are the 16 apartments in Santol he had built and left to 69

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There were many suspects: among them one of the workers that had been on the list of employees about to be laid-off, Nacionales tells Rogue. Business by that time had not been as good; it had, after all, been more than a year since his biggest patroness, Madam Imelda, had been kicked out of power. But then even during the last years of the Marcoses in Malacañang, the company was already downsizing. “Every payday, six families tinatanggal,” recalls Habunal. “Every Christmas, sasabihin niya [Laing] it would be his last Christmas,” she adds, which the workers took as a warning the company might close shop. Before he was murdered, Laing had sold a part of his property in Santol and would get from it, according to his workers, around P4M. This, they say, was the money Laing’s killers had their eye on. Laing had just arrived from Hong Kong four days before the crime took place, says Habunal. According to Bingbing Nieto, the florist was supposed to meet with one of his best friends, the antique dealer Viring de Asis, the morning Laing was found dead. “They had a meeting at 9 o’clock, because they always had deals together, and she saw him, she saw the murder happen in her dream,” Nieto recalls. “That’s why [even if] she was supposed to be there at 9 o’clock, she went there at six and started banging on his door.” According to the workers, however, their boss was supposed to go to Makati early—by then, Ronnie’s Flowers had opened a branch in the business district. Laing’s voice would usually be heard through the PA system in the compound in the morning, announcing the start of the day’s work. But it was past 9 am and the PA system had curiously remained silent. By the time Bernardo dela Rosa found his body, “Matigas na,” recalls dela Rosa. “Nakataob siya,” adds Habunal, who remembers her dead boss’s pajamas already soiled with his own excrement. “Basag tenga niya,” the lady recalls. It might have been hit by one of the antique brass objects in the room, she says, possibly a candelabra. n

THIS PAGE: PHOTO COURTESY OF LINDA HABUNAL . CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: COURTESY OF THE LOPEZ MUSEUM AND LIBRARY; WAKE AND CHRISTMAS PARTY PHOTOS COURTESY OF JOFRE DUGURAN; INTERIOR PHOTO COURTESY OF ROLANDO NACIONALES.

his employees, who had their own families. Today, in that humble compound in Quezon City, which used to be part of the Laing estate, only one of the five Ford Fieras from the 70s remains of the company vehicles. Parked by the entrance, it stands as a reminder of more glorious times. Laing’s business is gone, but some of his workers, on their own, entertain orders for floral arrangements, having inherited a few of their late boss’s clients—the Werdenbergs of Merville, the Cojuangcos, etc. Imelda Cojuangco, recalls Cecille dela Rosa, wife of Laing’s former bodyguard, used to send them rice every Christmas. They remember their bosses with fondness. “Mabait siya talaga,” offers Linda Habunal of Laing. The pay was small, they say, but everything else—housing, electricity, meals—was free. The staff used to have their own cook. “I have a big family,” Laing used to say, referring to his employees, whose children he used to entertain during company Christmas parties. They used to call the curly-haired Cavagnero “Kulot,” and Laing “Lakay.” They remember Cavagnero prancing about in Santol wearing his short shorts. They recall Laing’s walk-in closet overflowing with clothes, full of shirts with his preferred pointed collars. They remember how great he smelled—“pati kamay niya, mabango,” says Warlita Gorospe, who brings out a small bottle of No. 4711, a giant version of which she used to spy in Laing’s house. “Malayo pa lang, maamoy mo na siya.” They remember the house, which is now all but a figment of memory. The cabana, the ponds, the tea room, the rooms, each dedicated to a color—yellow, green, blue, beige—filled with curtains and decorative items in the corresponding hue. Habunal brings up the huge jar inside Laing’s personal bathroom, which he would fill with ice cubes. “Ipapaligo niya yung yelo,” she adds. Laing’s bedroom—ah, they’ve seen nothing like it in the villages of Forbes Park and Dasma, where the decorator would bring them when there was work to do. It even had crystals and a mini-waterfall feature at the back. His bedroom had double-walling, wood and adobe. That’s why it took hours, Habunal says, before they had learned Laing was murdered inside it.

IF THERE BE THORNS

Clockwise from top left: The wedding anniversary party of the Lopezes in 1968; the mass for Laing’s body which, before the coffin, was laid out on his dining table in Santol; at a company Christmas party; there were mostly greens during his wake, and flowers were kept to a minimum; another home Laing decorated, from the collection of former Laing employee Rolando Nacionales; Laing’s body leaving his estate in 1987; and the florist with the children of his staff. Opposite: Laing and Cavagnero in Santol.

the house of

A THOUSAND DEATHS PHOTOGRAPHED BY BJ PASCUAL STYLED BY BLAKE SAMSON

After getting rising social media influencer, society darling, and this month’s cover girl Jess Wilson to reveal her deepest darkest fears, Philbert Dy uses them as fuel to craft a work of fiction filled with haunted houses and gruesome deaths, shock, and suspense

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“ I D O N ’ T WA N T T O G O I N ”, S H E S A I D . The line moved much faster than she expected. It felt like it was just moments ago that the house was a far-off speck, the screams coming from inside so distant. And now there were just 10 people in front of her. “Don’t be a chicken, Jess. It’s just going to be a bunch of actors reaching out at you.” Her sister never understood. She knew full well that none of it was real, but that never mattered. She couldn’t even watch horror movies, even just the illusion of horrific suffering enough to drive her heart to beat wildly. It was beating wildly now as she beheld the Halloween attraction: an old American colonial house dressed up for the holiday, a sign hanging overhead with words in bright red letters: THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DEATHS. A man dressed as the Grim Reaper was herding people into the entrance, 10 at a time. He would beckon with a bony finger, a faint purple light visible from inside the sleeve. Scared as she was, Jess found it in herself to be impressed by the production. Enough, at least, to not completely freak out when the 10 people in front of her were sent in. She averted her eyes from the house’s gatekeeper. Even from far away, she knew that she didn’t want to see what was inside that hood. Even from around the corner, she could sense that nothing good could come from her staring into that darkness. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor of the wooden front porch, which was dressed up with still-wet bloodstains and various severed body parts. The scene unsettled her, but it still seemed like the better option. She could feel the Reaper gazing at her intently, waiting for her to look up, presumably for the chance to give her a jolt. She wasn’t about to give this actor the satisfaction. And then, a voice like falling gravel: “What are you afraid of?” Its words tumbled down her spine, each syllable sending ripples throughout her tense body. She kept silent, concentrating on her breathing, which threatened to run out of control. “She’s afraid of everything,” her sister replied for her. “She’s a little scaredy-cat.” “Are you afraid of me?” the Reaper asked. Jess couldn’t move, couldn’t will herself to even take a breath. The hooded figure drew closer, a shadow in the corner of her eye. She could feel the sway of the fabric, thousands of little needles as it brushed against her arm. She could see the purple light from within the robe casting a faint glow on her feet, and she could swear that her toes started feeling cold. She shut her eyes, but couldn’t ignore the proximity of the Reaper. She could feel it leaning in close, though she couldn’t feel the warmth of its breath, or hear the telltale sounds of wind entering and leaving its body. Instead, she could sense the wide grin that must be on its face, the deep pleasure it took from her discomfort. “You’re next,” it hissed. “Finally,” her sister said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forcefully through the doors. Before Jess could say anything, they were in a dimly lit entryway adorned with dozens of framed black and white photos of children. “Lame,” her sister said. “Kids aren’t scary.” Jess heard the door slam shut behind them, and the room went dark. Jess yelped, and then heard her sister scream. A moment passed, and then she heard her sister laughing. “I knew this would be fun to do with you,” her sister said. “It isn’t funny,” Jess replied. “I’m really scared.” “And I keep telling you: none of this is real. You have to get over it.” “Let’s just get through this.” Jess reached out to her sister, hoping to go through the rest of it clutching her arm, but there was nothing in front of her. “Hey,” she said into the darkness. “Where are you?” She was met with silence, and her panic grew wings inside her chest.

“This isn’t funny.” Tears were already forming in the corners of her eyes. “This isn’t funny,” she repeated. She flailed frantically, looking for anything solid to hold on to. But she only found more darkness. A familiar voice crawled into her ear. “Are you afraid?” Before she could reply, she felt a force pushing her on, driving her deeper into the darkness. She shut her eyes tight, squeezing the tears out, trying to will the horror away. She seemed to be rushing through an impossible distance at incredible speed, the oddly cool air turning into little pinpricks on her skin. And then, everything was still. She could feel a faint glow through her eyelids. She opened them, and let her eyes adjust to her new surroundings. She was in a kitchen. An old one, by the looks of it: white tile yellowed with age, pots and pans covered in rust. A large stock pot with a blackened bottom simmered on the stovetop, light steam rising from the crack of an ill-fitting lid. Jess quickly scanned the room for an exit and saw the door on the far end, just past the stove. She tried to gather her strength and steel herself to move forward. But then the same hooded figure from outside the house appeared in front of her, and she froze. “You are going to die here,” it said. She heard a clang on the other side of the room, and she saw the metal pot lid on the floor. She saw the pot boiling over, and the flame on the stove flaring up. In her head, she knew she had to do something, but she couldn’t will herself to do anything. She was helpless as she watched the fire grow at an alarming rate, moving quickly through everything flammable in its vicinity, as if it had a mind of its own, and knew exactly where it needed to be in order to thrive. Smoke soon filled the room, and the hooded figure disappeared in the haze. She coughed as she breathed in the smoke. She tried to scream, but found that she had too little air to do it. She rolled up into a little ball and closed her eyes, irrationally hoping that this would all just go away. She felt the heat grow closer, a warm glow that turned into sharp pain as the fire touched her. Even through the smoke, she could smell her singed hair. She felt her skin break and char as the flames surrounded her. The pain grew more intense as her insides boiled, her vital organs bursting from the heat and the pressure. She lived for a moment longer, long enough to see the fire consume her completely and feel the last traces of being leave her charred, broken husk. And then she was no longer there. She was in another room, in what seemed to be a completely different house. She could hear rain pouring outside through the hollow block walls, which were lined with shelves filled with books and various knick-knacks. Jess saw a door at the end of the room. She looked behind her and found an empty wall. She quickly took stock of her situation. Somehow, she was still alive. She wondered for a moment if she had just been dreaming, or was still dreaming now. But she pushed aside that thought as she remembered the very real pain of going through that fire. She looked up and saw the same hooded figure. She shrank beneath its shadow. “You are going to die here,” it said again. She balled up her fists, trying to gather some resolve from within herself. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. The Reaper said nothing. Jess shut her eyes tight and bound forward, hoping to catch the Reaper offguard. But she did not hit anything solid. She instead found herself running through a black, ichorous substance. It enveloped her in darkness and forced its way down her nose and mouth. She crashed loudly on the floor, dripping with ooze. She looked behind to see the Reaper still looming over her, inexplicably facing her direction. She coughed out the ichor, which was setting her lungs on fire. Through her struggled breaths, she asked, “What are you?” “I am what you fear the most.” Weakly, she tried to crawl toward the door. As she did, she heard 81

the storm outside growing more insistent and the roar of something enormous coming closer. Then in an instant, she heard something crash against the walls of the house, causing it to shake. She saw the roof buckle and an impossible column of water pour into the small room. She instinctively braced herself for impact, taking as deep a breath as she could as she assumed a fetal position. But it was all futile. The water smashed into her, the pressure crushing her rib cage and forcing the air out of her lungs. She watched the bubbles float away from her, vital oxygen leaving her body and heading in the opposite direction. Instinct took over as her body hungered for breath, gasping for any measure of relief but finding nothing but water. Her muscles quickly seized, paralyzing her as the water pushed its way down to her lungs, setting her chest aflame for an agonizing moment before it all went black. And then she was somewhere else. She was lying down, with her head propped up and tilted forward. A bright light was shining directly on her, and she saw silhouettes of people looming over her. Her eyes struggled to focus, and she couldn’t seem to move them. “Scalpel,” she heard one of them say. Inside, she panicked, but couldn’t seem to translate her alarm into any movement. She couldn’t make any of her limbs respond, or form any sounds, or indicate in any way that she was awake. Then a shadow crossed her vision, and even through the groggy haze of her flawed sedation, she recognized the figure. “Do you remember this?” it asked. It didn’t happen like this, Jess thought. She remembered the tumor, and the weeks of worry leading up to the surgery. She remembered the shock of the diagnosis, and the fear it instilled in her. She remembered shaving her head, and the friends that shaved off their hair in support. She remembered thinking that she might actually die. But she didn’t. “Such a brave young woman,” it said. “So many things could have gone wrong.” “Making the incision,” she heard. She couldn’t feel the steel cut into her brain. Not outwardly, at least. But her awake, conscious mind seemed to be trying to make sense of this intrusion. Electric shocks ran up and down her body. A burr of sharp pain formed at the base of her spine and slowly grew outward, enveloping her in physical agony. “Something’s wrong,” one of the doctors said. “There’s too much bleeding.” Her vision blurred further, and the figures in her line of sight transformed into strange shapes. Indistinct blobs of color turned dark before projecting metallic spikes out into all directions, throbbing to the beat of the insistent alarm beeps now flooding the room. Then her body twitched and contorted, bones dislocating as her malfunctioning nervous system folded her into unnatural positions. She heard the figure laughing as the last breaths left her body. And then she was somewhere else. She was on a crowded train platform, squeezed in among an impossible number of commuters. The Reaper stood where the security guard would be, looking over the crowd. On the PA, a woman announced that the next train would be arriving shortly. She pushed her way through the crowd, toward the hooded figure. The people around her seemed to completely ignore her, offering no reaction as she bumped and elbowed her way forward. She stood right in front of the Reaper and stared straight at him. “Hello, Jess,” it said. “Tell me what’s going on.” “You are in my house,” it replied. “Where’s my sister?” “Elsewhere. What does it matter now?” “Everything matters.” “Not to me.” “How is any of this possible? Am I actually still alive?” The Reaper knelt down to face her. “And what if you were dead?” Jess froze. “I… I don’t know,” she managed. She stared deep into the hood of the Reaper and saw nothing but darkness. What was kneeling before her was a palpable absence, a deep void of nothingness that struck a fearful chord in her heart. “I want to live,” she said. 82

“No, you don’t,” it replied. “You just don’t want to die.” She heard the train approaching behind her, and she considered the Reaper’s words carefully. “You didn’t answer my question.” The Reaper’s absence just stared back at her. “I’m still alive,” she said. “You’ve burned me, drowned me, and mutilated me. You’ve made me experience all my worst fears. But you haven’t actually killed me.” The Reaper rose. “This is your house, but nothing is real.” The hooded figure grew, and a large scythe materialized in his hands. “You’re just another actor in a haunted house, getting off on my fear.” The Reaper drew back the scythe, visibly threatening to swing on her. “Well, I’m not afraid of you anymore.” Jess jumped off the platform, into the path of the oncoming train. Time slowed to a crawl, and she felt her heart beating wildly as she floated in midair. The impact was real enough, her body bouncing off the train’s solid metal frame. Her bones shattered, her organs ruptured, and the pain was immeasurable. But there was no doubt left in Jess’s mind. There was nothing left to be afraid of. And then she was on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a dark, rocky expanse. The hooded figure was suspended, still looming large. She quickly willed herself up and jumped right off the edge. The wind whipped past her as she fell, whistling in her ears as the ground rose up to meet her. She kept her eyes open as she flew nearer to her grisly fate, facing it head on. The darkness came instantly as her body was pulverized on the rocks. And she was facing down a firing squad, and a man offered her a blindfold. She shook her head no, and looked down a row of guns aimed straight at her. The bullets, she found, felt like punches at first, before leaving a searing heat inside her. The bullets did not kill her instantly, and she had time to contemplate her fate as she bled out. But she knew this, too, would pass. And she was in front of a rabid dog. And she was kayaking down a wild river. And she was in a plane that was about to crash. She was in the middle of a desert, dying of thirst. She was in a dark alley, confronted by a man desperate for some cash. Again and again, she faced all the worst things she had ever imagined, all the terrible scenarios that kept her up at night as she clung to the illusions of death that loom over every person. She strode her way through a thousand deaths, many of them bizarre and completely absurd. She found herself in many unlikely scenarios, experiencing an improbable death. Stampedes. Avalanches. Gangrene. Zika. Hundreds of little freak accidents. And Jess found it in herself to laugh, amazed at the kinds of things that her mind concocted in the grip of its greatest fear. And then she found herself in a bare room, facing a door with an exit sign above it. Jess stood up, and the Reaper appeared before her again. “You can’t escape me,” it said. “You think you’ve won, but I’ll get you in the end.” Jess looked past the Reaper and walked forward. She stepped through his ichorous form once again, this time confidently striding into the palpable darkness. And the Reaper’s amorphous body seemed to give way, the dark, viscous liquid opening up to offer a path through. Jess opened the door and stepped through. She was outside now. Her sister was beside her, sweating and panting, her mascara smeared and her hair disheveled. “Oh my God, Jess,” her sister said, her voice slightly hoarse. “That was more intense than I thought it would be.” Jess just looked at her, unsure of what to say. At the front of the house, the Reaper stepped out on the porch and surveyed the line of people. And in each of them, the Reaper saw a thousand deaths. “You’re next,” it said, its voice a hive of bees, an echo through the darkness. “You’re all next.” n

Makeup by ANTHEA BUENO USING LAURA MERCIER Hair by SUYEN SALAZAR Stylist Assisted by RENEE CHRISTOPHER ULTADO Makeup Assisted by LUISA JARDINERO

THE ROGUE HORROR ANTHOLOGY

POSTERS BY SERIOUS STUDIO

Step into darkness and what comes back? Presenting three stories from some of the country's best screenwriters, fictionists, and horror impresarios: 170 by Yvette Tan, Punching Reynald by Mihk Vergara, and finally, Sanctuary by Eliza Victoria

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The last time Trishtan sucker punched someone,

he ended up losing an eye and awakened an elder god. The lack of depth perception he could live with. The elder god eating the moon, not so much. Trishtan figured that this bout of premeditated violence was worth the risk of yet another world-changing catastrophe and the loss of his remaining eye—Reynald had it coming. Reynald wore Crocs. He wore them so bad, they caused Trishtan to lose a poker game, which in turn put him in debt, which in turn lost him the room he saved up for, which in turn meant he slept on the floor. So yeah, he had it coming. He had been laying in ambush for the better part of the morning, waiting inside a small container truck that had shanked the side of the local beauty parlor. He sat, legs crossed, hands cupping chin, staring out at the street from a small slit of space the truck’s back doors made. The truck had been there ever since things started to go a little crazy for everyone in the town, where the lucky ones up and left and the notso-lucky ones spent their afternoons in small container trucks. It was close to noon when Trishtan decided to give up. The small crack in the back doors of the truck provided some ventilation, but not nearly enough against an intense midday sun. The moon might’ve been eaten, but the sun seemed to be doing its job just fine. He was halfway on his feet when— Clang. He tried to swallow down a gasp, but his throat was too dry. He wiped the sweat from his brow, inched his way to the doors and tried to angle a look at the outside.   Clang. He inched closer to the slit and the doors when he saw a vertical line of gnarled teeth appear behind the slit between them.  Trishtan could swear they were smiling. Clang. His world went white. When Trishtan woke up, he found himself face to face with a little girl. As more details came into focus, he saw that she was carrying an out-of-shape lead pipe, its bent frame curving around her shoulder like a big brother’s arm. Trishtan rubbed his forehead as he sat up. Some blood had dried while he was out. “Heck of a swing,” Trishtan told the girl. “Wasn’t me. You were like this when I got here,” she replied. “Beat up?” “Naked,” the girl gestured at Trishtan’s bare chest. Trishtan looked down. Whoever had knocked him out had taken all of his clothes, but had the decency to leave him with his boxers on.   Trishtan stood up and dusted himself off. At the very least, it was considerably less hot without most of his clothes on. Trishtan turned to the girl, taking measure of how small she really appeared to be. “Thanks for not killing me, I guess?” Trishtan gave the girl a small half-wave, effectively functioning as his goodbye. He turned around and set out down the main road. “Hey, I need to borrow your eye,” she shouted after him. Trishtan turned around. “Excuse me?” “Not that one,” her finger pointed to his good eye. “Not the one you lost either.” Trishtan tensed up. His hands started to ball into fists. A little girl wasn’t far off in the worst things he’d punched. If she was that. “I need your third one.” “Who told you that?” Trishtan said, slowly raising his fists. “Tani.” Trishtan sighed. He unclenched his fists and his arms dropped to 86

his sides. “You gonna pay? It’s going to cost you.” The girl stood her ground. “Yeah. Tani mentioned it.” Trishtan took a step forward. “Last chance.” The girl gave him a determined nod. “What’s your name, kid?” “Meng.” Trishtan nodded in acknowledgment. “Come on. Let’s find me some clothes and you can tell me all about your request.” Meng and Trishtan found themselves huddled under a gaping hole that used to be the front part of a neighborhood sari-sari store. Trishtan managed to scrounge up a ratty hoodie and an old pair of basketball shorts. Not the best-looking sartorial choices, but welcome ones given the circumstances. “You don’t want shoes or anything?” Meng asked. “I’m sure some’ll turn up on the way.” Trishtan’s attention was caught by a rather handsome two-by-four that jutted out of the rubble in the corner, right next to a cracked TV and a stack of song hits. “Are you sure that’s where your sister died?” Trishtan asked, barely looking at Meng as he tried to dislodge the piece of wood from the rubble. “Yeah. I put her down myself. So I’m pretty sure.” Her voice barely hid a pained annoyance. “The docks.” Trishtan dislodged the two-by-four from the rubble, swinging it around to test its durability. Trishtan swung the two-by-four one more time—just to be sure. “And you? You’re sure your eye works? I’m paying up the nose here.” Trishtan propped up the two-by-four for him to lean on. “You remember Aling Linda? Used to own this place. I come in here from time to time—pick up materials and the like.” Meng was not impressed. “And?” “Say hi, Aling Linda.” Meng felt a sharp tug on her ear. “Pakshet!” Meng looked around. No one was there. “You point me where your sister is at. I’ll let her know what you want to say. And vice versa.” Meng rubbed her ear with a frown. “C’mon, squirt. Let’s cover some ground before it gets dark.” They didn’t cover much ground and it got dark. Without the moon, nights were mostly pitch black. Any source of light just served as an easy way for whatever came out at night to find you. Thanks to his third eye, Trishtan didn’t need any sort of light to move around. Truth be told, he’d much rather let the nights pass without having to see all the things that came out at night. Meng and Trishtan holed themselves up on the second floor of an abandoned surplus store. “Get comfortable, kid. We’re going to wait it out.” Trishtan found himself under the jalousie. Meng took the corner at the opposite end of the room, beside the stairs. Hugging the lead pipe, she fell asleep more quickly than Trishtan thought she would. Trishtan almost fell into sweet, unconscious bliss when he heard a thwomp from the outside. He ignored it and tried to force himself back to sleep. Thwomp.

Trishtan fought every urge to look outside. It was a nightly battle, one that he’d lost with alarming frequency. If he was lucky, he’d see something he’d already seen. Thwomp. Trishtan cautiously looked out into the street and breathed a sigh of relief. Something familiar. He’d have called it a dog—that seemed like the most appropriate descriptor for it anyway. It was like something happened to wear a dog and decided to move in ways that dogs couldn’t. With everything else that he saw, this was one of the more tolerable ones. Trishtan even considered giving it a name. Trishtan watched as it sniffed around outside, zigging and zagging in jagged trajectories until it came to a stop right under the window. It looked up, one giant eye opening up to stare directly at Trishtan. He tried not to blink. The dog broke first, jerking its head up sharply toward the abandoned hardware store at end of the street. It scampered off, disappearing around the corner. Trishtan gave it a couple more minutes before he allowed himself to breathe. The journey was surprisingly uneventful. It took them two whole days to reach the wet markets that fenced the pier, taking their time and being extra careful. The most exciting thing that happened was a run-in they had with what was left of the local basketball team. It was a one-sided fight, and Meng did most of the work. Trishtan did take down the team’s point guard, and he got a pair of slippers for his effort.   It was mid-afternoon when they finally caught sight of the wet market and the pier behind it. Both of them were used to the sight of the blood red water by now. Meng led the way down to the pier. “Why do you charge that? You know, for jobs,” Meng said, without looking back. “Just trying to right a wrong, kid. Same as you.” Trishtan was getting antsy. “We near?” “Furthest one.” “Of course it is.” Trishtan and Meng weaved through the remains of the wet market. The shadows were a lot darker than usual, Trishtan noticed. “Speed it up, kid.” They quickened their pace. Trishtan’s two-by-four was at the ready. Meng gripped her bent pipe with both hands. As they made their way through the overturned stalls and the occasional wrecked pedicab, Trishtan kept an eye out for anything strange. They were just about through when Trishtan noticed it—the huge, ugly eye that stared up at him from the surplus shop. It blinked at him from one of the deep shadows of the wet market. “Run, kid! Warehouse!” Meng and Trishtan exploded into runs. The dog tore itself out of the shadow, writhing and clawing at itself like it was on fire. Trishtan and Meng were halfway to one of the warehouses when the dog finally pulled itself out. It let out a sound, like nails on a chalkboard, before bounding after them. Trishtan glanced over his shoulder and saw the dog was gaining, plowing through what was left of the stalls. “I’ll meet you there, kid! Go ahead!” Meng looked back and nodded. Trishtan slowed down, allowing the dog to close the gap even more. He glanced over his shoulder one more time and saw the dog was as close as he needed it to be.  He abruptly skidded to a halt, wound up the two-by-four, and exploded the piece of wood on the dog’s snout. The beast skidded onto its side, pawing at its nose. It was down, but certainly not out. Trishtan threw what was left of the two-by-four at the dog. It did little to stop it from getting up. The dog reared up to its full height, jerking more erratically than it had any right to. Trishtan put his left foot up and took off his slipper, rearing up in defiance of the beast. A sharp pain stabbed at his back, sending him lurching forward. He almost lost his balance, but he was able to steady himself. He looked up. It was Meng. Flying. The bent pipe she had gripped dangled over her head, ready to be brought down on its target. It didn’t miss. The pipe bludgeoned the

dog’s great eye, caving it in. Whatever the sticky viscous fluid that came from the dog’s eye was—it was splattered everywhere.   “Good job, kid!” Meng tried to pull out the pipe, but it was stuck. The dog shook its snout around, Meng dangling from the pipe lodged in the dog’s eye. The dog started shaking more and more violently. Meng didn’t hold on for very long. She was thrown clear across the wet market, her fall cushioned by a collapsed stall. “Kid!” A small, weak voice came out of the stall. “I’m okay. Finish it off. I’m going to lie here for a bit.” Trishtan picked up a fist-sized rock and started walking toward the dog. As it was writhing, he brought down the rock on the pipe’s edge, driving it deeper and deeper into the dog’s eye. Trishtan didn’t stop until the pipe had completely disappeared into the dog’s eye. Aside from the odd twitch, the dog had stopped moving. Covered in whatever came from the dog’s eye, Trishtan headed toward the collapsed stall. Meng was winded, but alive. “C’mon, kid. It’ll be dark soon. Let’s wrap this up.” Trishtan extended a hand out to Meng. She reached out and grabbed it. Meng and Trishtan stood out on the middle of the furthest pier. Trishtan zipped up his hoodie and put his hands in his pockets. “Let’s have it, kid.” Meng pointed out to the edge of the pier. Trishtan slowly walked over to the edge, stopping a little before he ran out of pier. He stood there awhile before he turned over to Meng. “What did you want to say?” “Tell her that I’m sorry, but I don’t regret what I did.” Trishtan leaned over to his left, like he was whispering to someone. He stood there for a bit and then nodded to the space on his left. “She’s asking if you would do it again.” Meng didn’t answer as quickly. “Yes.” Trishtan nodded to his left. He waited again before turning to Meng. “‘Good,’ she says. ‘That’s how you’ll stay alive.’” Trishtan looked over to Meng, expecting another question. Meng shook her head. Trishtan gave a nod to his left and made his way back to Meng. “You ready to pay up?” Meng nodded. “Wait.” “No freebies, kid. You had your chance.” Meng shook her head. “Why? What do you need with all the names?” “Like I said, kid. Trying to right a wrong. I get enough, maybe I get a shot at fixing things. Fixing everything. You good?” Meng nodded. “What’s your name?” Trishtan asked. “It’s—” Meng scratched the back of her head. “Your real name.” “Carmen,” Meng said as she looked at the end of the pier. Trishtan nodded. He saw Carmen’s name as it floated above her. He reached out and grabbed it. “That’s it?” she asked. “You’ll always feel like part of you is missing. It’ll get to the point where it’ll drive you nuts. Names are heavy, kid. You’re going to miss all that weight.” Trishtan put his hands in his pockets. “Your name was especially heavy.” Trishtan gave the girl a small half-wave, effectively functioning as his goodbye. He turned around and set out back down the main road. The little girl walked over to the edge of the pier and sat down. She looked out on the blood red water. Reynald heard his name called out from the back of the makeshift bar. He turned around and it didn’t look like anyone he knew—the only person standing there was a guy in a ratty hoodie, basketball shorts, and a pair of slippers.   Trishtan called out his name again. “Reynald!” Trishtan strode over to where Reynald was sitting. For the life of him Reynald could still not understand what was going on. Trishtan cocked his arm back, ready for a punch. “You had this coming.” n 87

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Brother Gabby peered into the room.

The man lay strapped to his bed, his three limbs held down with leather straps. He was missing his right arm. He had a blank expression; neither troubled nor at peace. The priest had never seen him before. “You sure he sent for me?” The doctor nodded. “Bro. Gabriel San Gabriel. Hard to mess up a name like that.” He chuckled at his own joke. Bro. Gabby nodded. “Is he dangerous?” The doctor shook his head, paused, then nodded. “He’s a danger to himself. We had to isolate him because he had started cutting himself. He was also making the other patients uncomfortable.” “Uncomfortable?” “You’ll see.” Bro. Gabby entered the room. It was small and dirty, the grime thick on the walls, which were covered in random scrawlings the color of dried blood. He could make out a few details, most of them numbers. 170. 170. 170.

“Mr. Reynaldo dela Cruz?” The man’s eyes swiveled in his direction. “Bro. San Gabriel?” Bro. Gabby nodded. “Thank you for coming to see me. You’re wondering why I asked for you.” “That thought did cross my mind.” “I’m dying,” the man said. “I want to make a confession.” “I’m a brother, not a priest. I’m not allowed to hear confession.” The man rolled his eyes at Bro. Gabby’s obvious statement. “We’ve never met, but I knew your Lolo Igo.” This caught Bro. Gabby’s attention. Everyone in the family knew about Lolo Igo. It was practically legend. “Is that why you sent for me?” “Don’t you want to know how your grandfather died?” “I know how he died. The family knows how he died. The entire Philippines knows how he died.” The man tried to shake his head, but the straps held firm. “You don’t know anything. You weren’t there.” It finally hit Bro. Gabby, what the man was getting at. “And you were?” He spied a chair at the edge of the bed and sat on it, trying very hard not to wipe off the thick film of dust that had accumulated on its surface. Reynaldo dela Cruz sighed. “I have been wanting to tell someone about this for decades. It eats at my soul. I know I won’t be able to rest properly without your forgiveness.” His eyes swiveled in their sockets, taking in the the markings on the walls. “Why me?” “It was your name that he kept mentioning.” “He?” “Igo. Your lolo.” The man was crazy. “Lolo Igo passed away before I was born. I never met him.” “That doesn’t matter. He knows your name.” “But—” The man cut Bro. Gabby off with the sort of impatience only a person at the end of their lives can understand. “Just listen to my story. Spend an afternoon with a dying old man. You can do that, can’t you, Bro. Gabby?” Bro. Gabby nodded. “I’m sorry.” “You know how your lolo died.” It wasn’t a question. “He was one of the people working on the Film Center when it collapsed in ’81,” Bro. Gabby automatically replied. It had become rote, the way everyone in the family heard it from their elders and parroted it to anyone who would listen. It was a strange source of pride. “Did you work with him?” “Please untie me. These straps are tight.” It was Bro. Gabby’s turn to be mad. “You requested for my presence and now you’re making me do things for you?” “Please,” the man said, his voice contrite, pleading. “I promise not to do anything. I just want to be comfortable.” Bro. Gabby looked at Reynaldo dela Cruz, at the straps that held the frail old man down. He undid them, helped the man sit up. Reynaldo dela Cruz massaged his weary muscles with his remaining hand and began to talk. “We were working beside each other when the scaffolding gave

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way,” the man said. “Igo broke my fall. I like to think that his death was instantaneous.” Their gazes fell on his missing limb. The man nodded. “I guess part of me will always be in that building.” He laughed mirthlessly. “You’ve had more than 30 years to seek me out. To seek anyone out. Why now?” “You’re a man of God. You must believe in ghosts.” “Lolo Igo is haunting you?” “They’re all haunting me!” the man wailed. The sudden change in his demeanor alarmed Bro. Gabby, made him wonder if releasing Reynaldo from his bonds was a good idea. The man began pointing at the wall across him. “Do you see that? Do you? We were supposed to be 170, but instead, I’m here. I let them die. I’m a coward.” Bro. Gabby stood from his chair and sat beside the man, touching his shoulder gently. “It wasn’t your fault the scaffolding collapsed,” he said. “It’s not your fault Lolo Igo died. That any of them died.” He continued, “You don’t need to confess anything.” The man’s left hand shot out, grabbing hold of Bro. Gabby’s wrists. His grip was surprisingly strong. “170,” he babbled. “We were supposed to be 170. We agreed. We signed in blood.” He looked at the wall again. Bro. Gabby followed his gaze. “I didn’t write that,” he said. “That’s my blood, but that’s not my handwriting.” “If the staff has been abusing you—” The man shook his head violently. “They’ve been very good to me here.” “What are you trying to tell me?” “I need your forgiveness, Bro. Gabriel.” “I already told you, I’m not a priest.” “But you’re a man of God. Surely you can forgive someone who has lived with a dark sin all his life. If it makes you feel better, they haven’t let me rest for it.” “I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?” The man sighed, but it was a good sigh, one that signaled that finally, he could tell Bro. Gabby what it was he had summoned him for. “Did you ever wonder why, despite what happened to your grandfather, his family has always managed to get by?” Bro. Gabby did wonder that, on occasion. Lolo Igo had left a wife and six small children. Lola was a housewife and remained so even after her husband passed away, yet she managed to put food on the table and send all her kids to college. It was a life that Lolo Igo, had he been alive, would not have been able to give them. It was something that puzzled Bro. Gabby, but was never talked about in the family.  The man turned Bro. Gabby’s attention to the wall again. “Do you know what 170 means?” The brother shook his head. “169 people died that day. We were supposed to be 170. We signed the contract in blood.” Bro. Gabby couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Do you understand what you’re saying?” “Humor an old man on his deathbed,” Reynaldo dela Cruz said. “We were nothing. We had nothing. It was a chance to provide for our families for as long as our lines survived. What did we care if it sealed a family’s rule forever? They had nothing to do with us.” “You were a sacrifice?” The man nodded. “Your lola had just given birth to your tatay. I convinced Igo that it was the only way he could properly provide for his family.”  “But you’re alive.” “I couldn’t go through with it,” the man said, refusing to meet Bro. Gabriel’s eyes. “And now my family is dead—everyone related to me by blood, up to the smallest drop. I am the last of my line and the ghosts of my relatives and your lolo and the others who died with him haunt me every night, but I’m alive.” He looked at Bro. Gabby. “I was a coward, and I still am. Please forgive an old man before he meets his maker, and the souls of everyone he has wronged.” Bro. Gabby didn’t know what to say. Everything he had just heard sounded crazy. But the pain in Reynaldo dela Cruz’s eyes was real, as was the tremor in his voice and the slight tremble that ran through his 90

entire body. What if what he was saying was the truth? He certainly believed it was. And if it was, on one hand, he had coerced Lolo Igo into exchanging his soul for his family’s fortune. While this had presumably made the family comfortable, from the stories his lola and his father’s older siblings told, they would have rather lived in poverty alongside their father. On the other hand, this man’s cowardice may have changed the course of the entire country. If it was true, that is. Bro. Gabby didn’t know what to do. Nothing in the seminary had prepared him for this, so he did the only thing he could think of at the moment. He got on his knees beside the bed and began to pray. n

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When Frances finally arrived at the airport, she thought she would feel reborn, but all she felt was another death. She dropped her things in the tray for the X-ray machine the same way she had grabbed them at her apartment: thoughtlessly, all at once. Phone, billfold with her credit cards, some cash she swiped off her bedside table, shirts, underwear, a five-day-old cardigan. Some odds and ends in her backpack. She could feel one of the airport guards glowering at her. She scooped all of these things again and hugged them to her chest. As she walked to the counters, she knew she was slowly shedding them, unable to grip them as they escaped. A coin. A keychain. “Is this yours?” A woman. A girl. Shiny hair. Bright pink lipstick. She was holding up an orange coin purse. Hers. Yes. “Yes,” Frances said. The woman appraised her with a quick look. Up-down. Frances’s thick-framed glasses, the hair sticking out of her ponytail, the baggy jeans. “Let me help you with your bag.” She led her to a seat, like a nurse guiding an invalid down the emergency room aisle. “Everything okay?” she asked. Frances kept her head down, pushing things down the mouth of her backpack. “Let me get us some juice.” Even in her distress, some semblance of good manners kicked in. “You didn’t have to do that,” Frances said. “Thank you.” Hand on her chest. “My name’s Frances.” “But I’d like some juice.” She laughed. “I’m Alice. Let’s go get some.” They went down the escalator to the Arrivals hall and sat at a Burger King. Alice got them both apple juice, but decided that since it was already late in the afternoon, it was high time for a snack. “Chicken with rice, or a burger?” They didn’t talk as they ate, which Frances liked, because it gave her room to breathe, and hated, because now she could see what an insane idea this was, buying that ticket, coming to the airport on impulse. “Where are you off to?” Alice, who was done with her food, asked, sucking ice and air through her straw. “Cebu.” “Oh. For vacation?” “A friend died.” Alice didn’t change her expression, or her tone. “Your friend will be buried there?” Are you going to the beach? Before Frances could answer, Alice said, “Why don’t you tell me two truths and a lie?” “What?” “You know that game?” Alice cupped her chin. She was wearing a red and white braided bracelet that looked stiff, starched. At first glance, it looked to Frances like a dried piece of bloody ligament, a preserved string of human muscle. “Let me start. I don’t like airports, I think you’re pretty, and I have a house where you can stay while you sort things out.” Frances felt as if she were watching herself from afar. Oh sure, why not flirt back, you idiot? “You think I’m pretty?” she said, smiling. “That has got to be the lie, right?” Alice smiled back but said nothing. “Sort things out?” Frances said. “What do you mean?” Alice wiggled a finger. “Two truths and a lie.” Frances sighed. “I feel fine,” she said. “My friend will not be buried in Cebu. And I’d like to see your house.” She looked delighted. “Now?” “Wait,” Frances said, “we’re going now?” Someone was standing next to her. Frances didn’t hear the 92

person approach their table. It was as though she (he? it?) had been brought by a gust of wind, as though she had emerged from the floor. Black robes, pale hands tied at the wrists with a red-and-white string, the same material as Alice’s bracelet. The image so strange and so out-of-place, Frances could only react with surprise. Even when she realized that beneath the robe’s cowl was not a face, but a depthless shadow. “Now,” Alice said. Did she fall asleep? Did they take another taxi? When Frances opened her eyes, she was sitting, barefoot, on a rattan bench next to Alice. The rattan bench had lemon yellow throw pillows. Frances glanced back. A two-story cement house. They were on the veranda. The floor tiles had geometric shapes—blue, burnt orange, specks of gold—and felt cool against the soles of her feet. “Your friend who died,” Alice said, “where do you think she is now?” Five or so meters from the house was a river, black as coal, the current roaring past like a deranged animal. “Do you think her spirit lives on?” Alice asked. “Someplace else?” The person in the robe was standing next to Alice, except that now, her robe was white. The same string was tied around her wrists—the only part of her body Frances could see. “I’m asking,” Alice asked, “because if you believed in an afterlife, in magic, in a world not of this world—if you feel even just a sliver of suspicion about the nature of reality—then there’s a chance this place would not drive you insane.” Between the house and the river was grass, or what looked to Frances like grass. “I brought someone here once,” Alice said. “She was steadfast. No sense of wonder at all. She believes what she sees is all that is. She kept asking about the material the house was made of, for example. Where I bought the tiles.” She laughed. “She didn’t last long. She wasn’t fun company anyway.” “Why is the river water black?” Frances asked. “How did we get here?” She sat up. “Who is she?” Alice glanced at the robed woman. “Who knows. I call her Tabula because she’s like a blank slate. In all the time I’ve been here she has never spoken a word to me. I think something went wrong in the transmutation, and now she can’t talk.” “Transmutation?” “I was desperate.” Alice waved a hand in an impatient, frustrated gesture. “I was so desperate to summon anything. A dead person, an angel, a demon. I don’t know what she is.”

She lifted a hand to show her the bracelet. “But I managed to summon her, and now she’s connected to me.” Frances stood up so quickly the rattan chair creaked. Two throw pillows fell to the floor. Where was her bag? Where are her shoes? “Don’t go,” Alice said, looking dejected. “Please. This place is untouched by time, but that river is just a river, and this house is just a house. I can bring you back to the airport. No time lost at all. Our trays will still be on the table we left.” Alice stood up. Tabula moved to stand behind her. “Would you like to go back now?” Frances was thinking serial killer, crazy person, torturer, but there was no denying the river was black, and that Tabula had no face. “Show me,” Frances said. “What?” Alice said. “Show me. How you’ll get me back.” Alice’s smile was the smile of a parent watching her child dance for the first time. A smile that came with fondness, awe. Pride. She nodded at Tabula. “Show her.” Tabula moved slowly between them and opened the house’s front door. The door opened on a bright floor, gleaming glass and steel, a high ceiling. ARRIVALS, said a white sign on the far wall. “This is impossible,” Frances said, standing next to Tabula, who had the deep, musky smell of a dying rose. Alice stood next to her. “Do you trust me now? You can just step right through, back in time.” People walked back and forth in the Arrivals hall on the other side of the door, peering at their boarding passes, checking the currency exchange on the automated screens. They paid no mind to the wide-open door, to the robed woman who had to hold the knob with both hands because her wrists were tied. “Do you want to go back now?” Alice asked. “You might miss your flight.” Frances didn’t take long to answer. “No,” she said. “Close the door. Show me more.” The house indeed was just a house, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a combined kitchen, dining, and living room area on the ground floor. No attic, no basement. No weapons. No locked doors. There were no appliances, and few furniture pieces. Alice used one of the bedrooms, her only possessions a neat pile of clothing at the bottom of a huge closet. Frances’s backpack and shoes were in the room opposite. “I saw this house in a dream,” Alice said as they walked along the riverbank. “It was either a house I had lived in as a child, or a house I will be living in as an old woman. A house to be, or a house that was. As always, Tabula won’t say.” “How long have you lived here?” “Time means nothing here,” Alice said. “No, but,” Frances said, “relatively speaking.” “Time means nothing here.” Frances was surprised to find a small wooden boat on the bank of the river. Who would ride that current? Alice seemed to read her mind. “The river calms at sundown.” They were standing downstream. Frances looked down the black river, which disappeared into a dense stand of trees, their branches bending down into the water.

“What’s at the end of this river?” she asked. “Another exit,” Alice said. Tabula stood with her bound hands clasped, head bowed, hiding the shadow nothingness of her face. “Why did you summon her?” Frances said. “You said you were desperate. Why were you desperate?” “You have so many questions!” Alice said, amused. “And to think we just met!” “Why do you bring people here?” Frances asked. Alice’s answer surprised and troubled her. “Because grief is a house,” she said, “and you can’t live in it alone.” Frances still felt as if she were walking in a dream, her reactions and emotions dulled, diluted, the strangeness of it all hitting her like a pillow instead of like a punch to the temple. She didn’t feel hungry or thirsty. The sun came down and the moon appeared from the gray clouds (if that were indeed the sun and the moon and the clouds), and the river current slowed to a standstill, the water shining like glass in the moonlight. What was powering the house? There was no electricity, but the house lit up when the sun set, as if on cue. She and Alice sat once again on the veranda, Tabula standing nearby. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said, placing her head on her shoulder. “How could this be?” Frances said. “How could this place exist?” “Isn’t it great to feel awe again?” “Can you go anywhere through that door?” Frances asked. “Anywhere.” “Anywhere? Really? Like the Louvre?” “Do you want to go to the Louvre?” Frances, excited, turned on the rattan bench to look inside the house, and saw a woman standing in the living room staring right at her. Frances knelt on the grass where Alice caught up with her. Alice was holding her hands. She could feel it now, the strangeness, the fear. The strangeness. Feel it like a knife pushed to the hilt between her ribs. “Who did you see?” Alice asked. Frances screamed, the tears pouring down her cheeks. “Who was it?” “What is this place?” Frances screamed. “Why is she here?” “Who was it?” Alice’s voice was calm. “Abigail!” “Your friend who died?” Alice placed her arms around her. Frances gasping, crying, burying her face in Alice’s hair. “We’d been together for three years.” Alice sat with her on the grass as it all poured out of her: how she and Abigail met in the BPO where they both worked the graveyard shift, the plans

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they made together, the silence they needed to keep. “She came to me one day, and said she was leaving me. Apparently she had been sleeping with this guy at work. For more than a year. This guy, who was our boss. Who was married with children. “She begged me not to tell anyone about the relationship.” And Frances felt again the ugly realization scraping her, like jagged rock against flesh: I am not wanted. Abigail turning from a person cherished to a complete stranger. “You know, the same way she begged me not to tell anyone that we were seeing each other.” “So you told Management.” “I was very, very angry.” “She lost her job?” “They were both given the chance to resign, which they did. I think the guy’s wife confronted Abi shortly after. A public place, like a mall. A public spectacle. I was just half-listening to the office gossip. Then I heard Abi had jumped from her apartment on the 10th floor.” Frances sighed. “Yesterday. She jumped yesterday.” “But she won’t be buried in Cebu,” Alice said. “Her family’s from Bicol,” Frances said. “Cebu was arbitrary. It was just the first city I saw on the list online. I booked a ticket on impulse. I don’t know anyone in Cebu. I just wanted to—“ “To escape.” “But she’s here,” Frances said, crying again. “Why is she here?” Frances couldn’t quite read Alice’s expression when she asked, “Why were you frightened when you saw her?” Mixed confusion and disgust. A subtle judgment. “Didn’t you want to—” Alice glanced at the house. “Didn’t you want to talk to her, maybe?” “What difference would it make?” Frances said. “She’s already dead.” “You don’t think the dead can forgive you?” “But it won’t bring her back.” Frances cried. “It won’t bring her back.” Alice held her hand as they walked back into the house, a mother telling her child there are no monsters under the bed. She had felt no thirst or hunger, but now Frances felt tired. She didn’t want to sleep alone. She didn’t want to sleep in darkness. Tabula waved her hand at Alice’s urging, and suddenly there were mattresses on the floor, pillows on top of the folded blankets. Alice led her to one of the mattresses and tucked her in, smoothed the hair away from her eyes. Grief is a house. Frances dreamt of Abigail telling her about the affair. In the dream, Frances did not tell the people at work. Abigail resigned so she could go home to Bicol, where her family lived, so she could clear her head, start over. Their boss did not resign, the bastard, so Frances asked to be moved to another division. She met someone else, someone who did not demand secrecy. She moved on. Later, years later, she and Abigail bumped into each other at the mall. They smiled, but did not speak. It was still too painful to speak, but the smile was enough. Another dream. Abigail did not have an affair. She remained faithful in their three years together. She came home one night and made a different announcement—that she would be taking Frances to Bicol, to finally be introduced to her family. I don’t care what they’ll say anymore, she said. We’re not hurting anybody. They should allow me to be happy. On the bus to the province, Frances touched Abigail’s cheek. What? Abigail said. Nothing, she said. I’m just admiring your face. Frances suffused with a feeling, a certainty, that she would love this woman forever. 94

Frances turned on the makeshift bed, muffling her mouth with a pillow, crying over the things that could have been, but would now never be. She felt Alice embrace her from behind. Shh. Shh. You’re safe now. Sometime in the night, Frances woke up and saw Alice sitting, her legs folded, at the foot of her mattress. Tabula sat in front of her, mirroring the pose. Alice whisper-shouted: “When is it my turn? When is it my turn?” A soft sobbing. “She gets to see and I don’t?” Then: “I want you to try harder.” Frances did not want to go to the Louvre, or anywhere. She just wanted to go home. They were sitting at the dining table. Between them was an elaborate high tea set conjured by Tabula. Poached eggs, bread, butter. Tiny squares of cake. “You know they have high tea in the late afternoon, right?” Frances said. But then, what time is it in this place? “We’re not British.” Alice laughed. “I want to go now.” “Please stay. Just one more day.” “I’m not spending another night here.” “Okay,” Alice said. “Okay. Until right before sundown. Please.” She glanced at Tabula. “She doesn’t talk. I feel like I’m going nuts here.” “How many people have you brought here?” Frances asked, leaning forward on the table. “I’m not sure,” she said as she chewed on a bite of cake. “A handful.” “Why won’t you go home?” “Is this an interrogation?” The change in Alice’s tone was abrupt. “I just want a quiet high tea breakfast. Why do you need to know everything? Even this place exists in uncertainty.” She turned her head, quickly, as though a spider web had landed on her hair. “Wait—did you see that?” “What?” Alice stood up, pointed at the window. “I saw someone pass by.” Frances shook her head. Alice threw Tabula a triumphant smile and ran out of the house. Frances followed her. “Is it you?” Alice shouted into the air as she ran parallel to the river. “Is it you?” Then: “Jason? Wait. Wait!” How long had they been running? Frances ran until sweat pooled in her armpits, until she felt so light-headed she thought she would lose consciousness. When she came upon Alice, she was sitting in the mud in the riverbank, the river close enough to snatch her. “He didn’t even look back,” Alice said. There was someone walking upstairs. “You can hear that, too?” Alice said, her voice faint, as if she were half-awake. She was sitting on the floor of the living room, her arms and legs and face streaked with mud. “That belongs to neither of us, then.” The steps were getting louder, heavier. “What the hell is going on?” Frances asked. “Who is Jason?” “My brother,” Alice said. “He drowned while I was watching him. I thought he was just playing in the pool.” The steps receded, and the house was silent again. “I waited so long to see him,” Alice said, clutching her hands, as though pleading with her, “and he didn’t even look back.” The mud on her skin had started to harden, and Frances saw through the cracks that Alice’s knees had been scraped raw. “Let me get you some water,” she said. Frances stood up, but instead of heading to the sink, she sat at the kitchen table and felt a weariness so bone-deep she found she couldn’t move any longer. “Grief is a house that you reside in alone.”

A voice like silk. Frances wanted to scream, but she couldn’t even open her mouth. In the living room, Alice began singing to herself. A song with a repetitive melody, like a lullaby. Tabula sat across from her, placing her bound hands carefully on the tabletop. “I offer you two truths, and a lie,” Tabula said. Frances realized she could now see the lower half of her face, her thin nose, her lips the color of dried blood. “Jason drowned, I am Alice’s slave, and that is not Alice singing.” “It’s not Alice singing?” Frances whimpered. No. Which one is the lie? The song continued in the living room. “Then who is singing?” Tabula smiled. “Two truths and a lie,” she said. “Alice is afraid, the end of the river is not an exit, and every person she brings here manages to return to the world safely.” “What?” Frances said. “What are you talking about?” “Who is the slave?” Tabula raised her hands, palms up, and Frances noticed that her wrists were no longer bound. “Who is the one summoned?” “Are you an angel?” Frances asked. “A demon?” “You say these words as if they mean anything,” Tabula said, placing her hands in her lap. “As if they can provide you an insight into my nature. If I tell you I am an angel, will that make you trust me?” Terror made Frances’s legs tremble. Fight or run. She couldn’t decide. “Ask me your true question, Frances.” Frances swallowed. “Are you going to hurt me?” “If there is a ritual that will allow you to speak to Abigail again,” Tabula asked, “would you do it?” “Please,” Frances said, too frightened to even wipe her tears, “let me go home.” “There is a price, of course, and Alice is willing to pay that price,” Tabula said. “What if I tell you that the people she brings here are the sacrifice needed to allow her to stay in this place longer? That you are a sacrifice? That she chose you the way a murderer chooses his victim? The distracted, the weary—the one walking alone in the night.” “Frances?” Alice calling to her from the living room, her voice plaintive. “Is that you singing?” “Thy Father’s house has many doors,” Tabula said. “Alice wanted to open all the doors because Jason would not come to her. Abigail came first. Who knows what else has arrived with them?” “Who does she need to sacrifice to?” Frances asked. “Why do gods require a sacrifice?” Tabula said. “What they relish must not be death, because what use does the eternal have for an extinguished life? What they must adore is the struggle. What they must adore is the game. What they must adore is the hope that blooms in your eyes at the moment of escape, right before it is destroyed.” Frances felt weak. “Does she sacrifice to you?” “Only one of these is true,” she said. To her horror, Tabula raised her hands to her cowl. She was going to show her her face. “You can trust me. You can trust Alice. You can trust no one.” Frances did not want to see her face. “Alice!” Frances said, her body finally obeying her. Her chair fell to the floor in her haste to stand. “Is that your choice, then?” Tabula said. Alice was still on the floor when Frances ran to the living room. Whatever was walking upstairs now seemed to be throwing furniture against the walls. Beneath the violent noise, the singing continued. “Who is that?” Alice asked, staring at the ceiling. “Can you hear that? The singing?” “Alice, we have to go.” Frances lifted Alice up, her arms around her torso. “How do we get out of here?” They fell in step until they were both running as they burst out of the house. “The river,” Alice said, out of breath. “The exit.”

She and Alice reached the boat and turned it over. They pushed it onto the water, on the calm riverbank. The white water produced by the current sliced down the center of the river like a snake. “That current will capsize us!” Frances said. “It’s okay,” Alice said. “Trust me. Get in the boat.” Alice would be pushing the boat onto the current with her in it. Frances glanced at the house, looking for Tabula, who did not follow them. “What are you waiting for?” Alice said. “We can’t both be in the boat. I’ll have to push. I’ll jump in at the last minute.” From the house, the sound of breaking glass. “Don’t leave me,” Frances said. “No,” Alice said. “Never.” Frances stepped on a rock jutting out of the water and onto the boat. She sat down, hitting her shin with the paddles. “Get in now,” she said. Alice, tight-lipped, walked into the water and pushed the boat backward. The water now reached her knees. “Alice?” Frances’s heart hammering in her chest. Then Alice climbed on a rock and jumped in, pushing the boat away from the riverbank with one of the paddles. They rocketed down the river, the current swaying them. They held each other’s hands, Alice facing aft. Frances looked down and realized that Alice’s knees were still dirty with mud, but she had no wounds. Her scrapes were healed in a matter of minutes. “What happened to your knees?” Alice glanced over her shoulder, as though waiting for something to appear on the horizon downstream. “What?” Frances was reminded of Abigail saying, Fran, my computer’s acting up again. Can I borrow you for a minute? and her following Abigail to her cubicle, then walking past it, giggling, to the fire exit no one used, so they could share a quick cigarette and a long, probing kiss. And later, for many nights, Abigail saying she had to stay late at work again, she had dinner with some college friends, she checked in at a budget hotel because the traffic was terrible and she was too tired to drive back home. Theater. A farce. “This river has an exit?” Frances asked. The black water betrayed no rocks, no broken branches. No creatures that could bite her. She could swim. But could she swim against the current? Alice moved closer until their knees knocked against each

other, until their foreheads touched. Heads bowed as if in prayer. “Yes,” she said. “Trust me.” Her breath smelled like strawberries and mint. Alice’s eyes hidden by her hair. Alice’s fingers gripping her fingers. Not letting go. Two truths and a lie: Alice had been lying to her. Tabula had been lying to her. Alice and Tabula are working together. Frances looked out of the boat at the river’s black surface, her thoughts as wild as the current, and she thought of Abigail in her final hour, the loneliness she must have felt when she looked down and asked, Should I jump now? Should I jump now? n 95

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THE

WID OW AND

If there was anyone who came closest to being the necessary “other half” of Nick Joaquin’s famously mysterious (if altogether non-existent) romantic life, it was Elena Roco. Her closeness to the National Artist sparked a furor in the 70s culturati scene after the newly widowed Math and Spanish professor started appearing in social functions with the literary giant. In the centennial year of the National Artist’s birth, Lito B. Zulueta traces the beginnings of their relationship, while introducing us to the titan of Philippine letters’ drinking buddy, staunch critic, and longtime companion

NICK JOAQUIN

NICK JOAQUIN and by far the most prolific and most prodigious of 20th century writers, evincing mastery of nearly all major literary forms and types—fiction, poetry, drama, historical and social non-fiction—but their number and superiority stand in inverse proportion to the cipher of his romantic relations. According to common wisdom, Rizal’s creativity had been fueled by romance (or attempts at it), ranging from the puerile and the personal to the pompous and the patriotic. In short, he had Muses to inspire him. In stark contrast, Joaquin had none. He had zilch. Zero. In fact, he died celibate.  But his staunch bachelorhood in the face of his impressive talent and output has fascinated many; it was the subject of much talk, some innocent, others illicit, even when he was alive. Part of the intriguing regard has had something to do with his reclusive personality, his aversion to publicity and “picture-taking.” Thank God, he did not live to see the era of the selfie—if he were still around today, he would have died a thousand deaths after several requests from fans for selfies and group-fies. But the self-effacement and horror of the spotlight was not a put-on, nor a Hollywood-agent strategy to pique interest. He was, by nature, shy, but not withdrawn or socially inept. How else could he have made those famous celebrity profiles and crime and political reportage during his Philippines Free Press years if he were a social zombie? His prolific and very engaging journalism showed his utter professionalism and his humble practice of his favorite adage: “Trust the tale, not the teller.” That is, write about events and personalities, not about yourself.  But since Joaquin is a giant in the rather meager (deceptively meager, admittedly) Parnassus of Philippine letters, and his birth centenary is being commemorated this year (he was born on May 4, 1917), his figure is rife for rumor and gossip. The particular gossip that this meager piece of writing (indubitably meager, admittedly) is tackling has been circulating since he died on April 29, 2004, and has been exposed likewise as zilch and zero—but hey, nobody would mind, least of all Joaquin, author of intriguing fictions and near-fictions.  So who was Joaquin’s Inammorata?  She was my mathematics teacher in college and she turned 90 on Oct. 7, 2017. Her name is Elena Roco. She also taught Spanish in college, but that seemed a given for someone close to Joaquin, Bard of the Hispanic heritage of Las Islas Filipinas. And if her rumored romantic connection with Joaquin doesn’t ring a bell, it should be said that she’s the aunt of actor Bembol Roco.  At the Faculty of Arts and Letters (Artlets) of the University of Santo Tomas (UST) back in the 1980s, we didn’t know that “Ma’am Roco” was close to the man whose works we avidly read in our literature textbooks and immensely enjoyed. It was only when I was already a professional journalist that I learned the two were very close and, in fact—to get ahead of the story and quash wanton speculation this early—were drinking buddies. A stickler for work and deadlines, Joaquin would spend the whole day writing. Respite from work was especially set on weekends, when he would go bar-hopping—with Profesora Elena Roco in tow. He was penniless when he died, wrote his nephew Tony Joaquin, the son of Ping and Sarah Joaquin. This, despite his million-peso commissions from VIPs begging him to write their biographies. This

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was not news to me. Nick Joaquin was generous to a fault, and he often tipped everyone for the merest service or assistance. “He notoriously gave huge tips to people who served him when he did his nightly bar- and hotel-hopping,” writes Tony in his biography of his uncle (2011, Anvil Publishing). I myself had seen this firsthand. In fact, I had accompanied Joaquin and Roco on one of their nights out. On a visit in the early 1990s to the Solidaridad Bookstore on Padre Faura Street, Ermita, I was reunited with my mathematics teacher. She was with Joaquin, who had dropped by to say hello to the bookshop owners, fellow writer F. Sionil Jose and wife Tessie. Roco and Joaquin were about to go on their usual Ermita night out, bar-hopping. (“Nick’s favorite was Calle Cinco,” she would tell me much later, and I was wellacquainted with that because it was an outdoors bar on Mabini Street, with a very loud rock band whose racket would reach Solidaridad.) When they were about to leave, I was asked to tag along and Frankie Jose told me, “O, samahan mo ’yang mga matatanda, alagaan mo.” Thankfully we didn’t go to smelly and smoky Calle Cinco, but to the tony but distingué Manila Hotel. Before we got out of the cab, Nick took from his pocket a thick wad of P100 bills and started giving them to the cab driver, the doormen, the concierge, and just about everyone who welcomed and greeted him. Roco tried to restrain him, but to no avail: Joaquin seemed to revel in his role as St. Nick, and the hotel staff could only be thankful that Santa Claus seemed to have sleigh-ridden by much, much ahead of Christmas. We went to the Champagne Room and there, everyone’s literary icon and my mathematics teacher ardently watched Joselito Pascual perform their favorites on the piano. Every tune closed with hearty applause from Joaquin and Roco and, to keep the entertainment going, he would request for a Cole Porter tune, asking the available waiter to deliver to Pascual his tip of P500. Even Pascual had to beg off and promptly play the requested song just to restrain Joaquin from his excessive magnanimity. Meanwhile, he took bottle after bottle of San Miguel Beer (at that time there was only Pale Pilsen and, even with the introduction later of San Mig Light and new and trendy brews for the weight-conscious, he stuck to the vintage brown bottle). And while I remembered that Ma’am Elena was consuming the same, she later corrected me and said she wasn’t really a beer drinker like her best friend, but that she preferred martinis. Gin and vermouth for a lady like her, in stark contrast to the beerguzzling hombre beside her. A poet and Hispanophile critical of the North American bastardization of Philippine culture, Joaquin would, however, readily agree with a favorite American writer of his, H.L. Mencken—that the martini is “the only American invention as perfect as a sonnet.” Because she taught arithmetic, Roco often would act as bursar and money-cop to restrain Joaquin from his wild tipping spree. “Dejales, Elena,” he would tell her. “Un poce de aumento sera una ayuda”—let them be, my tip is but measly aid, he would tell my numbers teacher. His generosity became legendary after his death. Tony Joaquin writes in his biography that, before coming home from his nights out, his uncle would visit a shantytown in San Juan and give money to the poor residents. When I tried to confirm this recently with Ma’am Elena, she replied, “Santo ’yun!”  A saint’s life is characterized by mysterious twists and turns, and

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may have been the greatest Filipino writer after Jose Rizal

REPORTAGE ON (NOT QUITE) LOVERS

Clockwise from left: Joaquin, National Artist and perhaps the most revered of Filipino men of letters, was known for his fiction, poetry, and reportage, his love of beer, and his solitary life; Roco and Joaquin at a tribute to sarsuwela star Atang dela Rama at the CCP in the 1990s; the rumored couple at the 14th Thomas More Lecture in 1981; Joaquin in one of the rare public speaking engagements he agreed to; the Philippines Free Press office in Santa Cruz, Manila, where Joaquin and Roco first met, and where they discovered they were actually neighbors in San Juan.

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engaged in Spanish conversation at Ramos’s office at the fortresslike UST Main Building, the nerve center of the pontifical university. After the meeting, Ramos endorsed Roco to teach Spanish, and Roco became the faculty oddity. None had seen before as wide a disjuncture: a mathematics teacher who was also teaching the Queen’s Spanish. Que horrores! But the bigger horror, as far as observers were concerned, was Roco’s closeness to Joaquin. The matter became fodder for the gossip mills and even the news media. In 1978, the weekly magazine Celebrity (edited by Rod Reyes and staffed by such names as Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Vergel Santos, and Jo Ann Maglipon, now the editor of the entertainment glossy YES! Magazine) had for its theme, “Best Friends.” “Best friends, alas, [are a] fast-disappearing breed,” the edition declared. And the first set of friends to be featured were… Nick Joaquin/Roco. Tongues so wagged that they reached the attention of the parish priest, Fr. Gerardo Manzanedo, OP. Roco remembered the stern friar visiting her with the assistant parish priest, the two in all their intimidating Dominican regalia subjecting her to an inquisition, albeit pastorally and paternally. “Are you and Nick lovers?” they finally asked. Roco rocked with laughter. Nowadays, she would say that Joaquin indeed had a “girlfriend,” and it wasn’t herself. His Valentine was her daughter, Marissa, she said, but she also remembered the latter asking if Joaquin had ever been in love. “Oo naman,” he told Marissa. “Who?” The Blessed Virgin Mary,” said the devotee of Our Lady of the Rosary, La Naval de Manila. At UST Artlets, a literature hub and bastion of anti-Marcos protest, for Maestra Elena to be associated closely with the Maestro of Philippine literature was not a shameful scarlet letter, but a badge of honor. So close were the two that I learned only recently that, although

THOMAS MORE LECTURE PHOTO COURTESY OF MARRA PL . LANOT AND JOSE LACABA . OPPOSITE: JOAQUIN PORTRAIT COURTESY OF KIRI DALENA THROUGH THE LOPEZ MUSEUM AND LIBRARY

mystery triggers and animates close relationships. For Ma’am Elena, the trigger was before martial law in the late 1960s, when she accompanied her neighbor in San Juan, Toto Locsin, to the Free Press office on Avenida Rizal, Santa Cruz to fetch the latter’s husband, Teodoro Locsin Sr., the publisher. There, Roco met Joaquin for the first time, and the two discovered they were neighbors in San Juan and, in fact, parishioners of the ancient Santo Cristo Church of the Spanish Dominicans. Joaquin was especially devout (he was a seminarian of the Spanish Dominicans in their convent in Hong Kong in the 1940s), so Roco and husband Chony started to regularly attend the Sunday Mass with the writer at Santo Cristo at 7:30 am. They hung out regularly and, when their third child was born, the couple asked Joaquin to be the godfather. But Chony died early of leukemia, and Ma’am Elena was untimely widowed. Whimpering and sniveling, she was admonished by Joaquin: “Elena, keep your nose clean!” He tried to assuage her grief by taking her out to dinners and parties with friends, and to movies, book launches, and cultural affairs. In her widowhood, too, she felt compelled to work and earn a living for her family. Because the war cut short her architecture studies in Mapua (her father was an architect), she tried to go back to school and finish a degree by soliciting the help of the Dominican friars. At UST, with the help of Fr. Tomas Martinez, OP, Roco went back to college and finished BS Math and Physics. She started teaching at the Faculty of Arts and Letters, as the old Faculty of Philosophy and Letters or Philets had been so renamed, Philets having been the alma mater of Free Press publisher Locsin Sr. And because at that time, students were required to take up 24 units of Spanish, and there was always a need for language instructors, Roco was made to teach Spanish. Although she had no degree in language education, she was asked to qualify by undergoing an interview with Norberto V. Ramos, the long-time university registrar who served at least a dozen UST rectors in the 20th century. The two

IN GOOD COMPANY

While largely reclusive, Joaquin often enjoyed the company of friends and colleagues. Clockwise from top: At the Christmas party of the pre-People Power publication Midweek, with fellow media personalities, among them Joe Quirino (in office barong) and food writer Doreen Fernandez (standing rightmost); delivering a speech in Ateneo; a portrait of the National Artist by close friend Danny Dalena. Opposite: The self-effacing Joaquin didn’t like giving lectures, but Roco was able to convince him to show up on the podium for the 14th Thomas More Lecture at the UST in 1981.

At one time, Joaquin attributed the celebrated drama of El Siglo de Oro of Spanish letters, La Vida es Sueño, to the wrong author. “Nick, that’s not correct,” she told him. “The play is by Calderón de la Barca.” And she went on to quote the most famous verses from the play: “¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión, una sombra, una ficción, y el mayor bien es pequeño: que toda la vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son.”  (This writer’s very loose translation:“What is this life? An illusion / A shadow, a fiction / And the greatest good is miniscule: / Life is but a dream, and dreams are only dreams.”) Roco figured in Joaquin’s largely oral history of the EDSA Revolution, Quartet of the Tiger Moon (1986, Book Stop, Inc.). Even in our classes, Roco would inveigh against Marcos and martial law, so she joined the 1986 uprising right from the get-go and on the second day of the four-day revolution, according to Joaquin, she experienced one of her “vividest memories”: “UST Professor Elena Roco… cites as unforgettable the scene she beheld on Sunday afternoon when, going toward the highway from Santolan Road, she heard a pounding noise as of a thundering herd in flight and then saw hundreds of thousands of people rushing along EDSA. At first you might think that a panic was on and this wild mob was fleeing in terror. Actually, the people were not running away from danger; rather, they were running eagerly toward danger! That, says Elena Roco, was what made the scene so spectacular. The onrushing tanks had been sighted approaching Ortigas Avenue, mounted with huge, fearful-looking guns, and the freedom fighters were racing to

“I said to Nick, ‘We do love each other, don’t we? I love you and you love me.’” 1981. The lecture was to become Joaquin’s most celebrated and most controversial essay in the final quarter of his life—“Christianity and the Economic Culture of the Philippines,” later redacted into the by now familiar essay and bestselling book, Culture and History (Solar Publishing, 1988; Anvil Publishing, 2004). In the lecture, Joaquin rebuffed the nationalist witticism famous in the 1950s about the Christian conversion and Spanish colonization of the Philippines: “We seem to arouse in other peoples a desire to convert and civilize us,” Joaquin declared. “Exactly its opposite is true: that we seem to arouse in other peoples a disinclination to convert or civilize us.” He argued that if Asia, with its far older religions and civilizations, had really aroused a desire among its peoples to convert and conquer the Philippines, then why didn’t that happen before 1521, already the modern era? “And that is why Christianity is so unique an event for us, because Christianity is the only religion that has shown a desire to convert us and has pursued that desire with undeniable zeal.” Because of her knowledge of Spanish literature, Roco could play devil’s advocate to Joaquin. “Nick, why do you keep on writing about Intramuros?” she asked him. “Because it holds a lot of memories and provokes a lot of emotions in me,” he said, and went on to quote the famous last lines from his immortal drama, A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino: “And this dear city of our affection shall rise again—if only in my song! To remember and to sing: that is my vocation…” Roco likewise criticized his first novel, The Woman Who Had Two Navels, specifically the alleged sight of the mountain shaped like a woman supine seen by Hong Kong-born Filipino musician Paco Texeira on Manila Bay when he first came to the country. “Nick, I’ve been all over the boulevard but I cannot see your sleeping woman! Where it is it really, tell me!” 114

meet those guns—and to stop those tanks.” Roco was so close to Joaquin and could prevail upon him to relax his defenses that the Dominicans implored her to ask if he could authorize someone to write his biography or, better, write it himself. She approached him and, feigning innocence, raised the matter: “Nick, the fathers are asking if you already have a history of your life.” He sensed at once where the conversation was going and told her, “Don’t you dare, Elena! What life are you talking about!”  Roco now wishes she had pressed the matter further and made Joaquin write his memoirs or allow a biography to be written. On Palm Sunday 2004, he failed to attend mass with her, and so she went to his house to give him the customary blessed palms. As against their Palm Sunday custom, too, he begged off from going out with her and writer Gregorio Brillantes and his wife Lourdes for dinner. He said he was not feeling well. He was indisposed throughout Holy Week and even Easter Sunday. But he seemed to have recovered Easter Thursday, when he called and asked for cheesecake. She laughed because she knew he hated dessert, but she sent him the request, and soup and fruits as well. That was the last time they communicated. On April 29, she was informed that Joaquin had died that morning, five days shy of his 87th birthday.  As it turned out, Roco had used the communication lull between her and the sick Joaquin to prepare something for his birth anniversary on the 4th of May. She told me recently that she had made a greeting card for him. Although more at home with numbers and calculation, she had literary flair and had imbibed his lyricism: “Dear Nick,” she would write. “Our friendship is like martini: it’s the salt on the brim.” n

OPPOSITE: PHOTO OF ELENA ROCO BY VLADLYNN NONA MARYSE L . TADEO, UST VARSITARIAN; FVR AND IMELDA PHOTOS COURTESY OF MARRA PL LANOT AND JOSE LACABA

both were fierce critics of Ferdinand Marcos and his military rule, Roco had played a part in convincing Joaquin to accept the National Artist Award from Marcos. Just about every artist now worth his salt (or inflated ego) is lobbying for the award, but there was a time that the National Artist medallion was considered a sign of surrender, of bowing to patronage by authoritarianism. Joaquin hadn’t wanted anything to do with the award, which was instituted by Imelda Marcos obviously as a soft-power projection and a marketing gimmick of the despised dictatorship. Joaquin could see through the shenanigans and machinations of the strongman and balked at giving in. But Roco told him, “Tanggapin mo na.” Her entreaties, and his bargain with the strongman—for the release of his protégé Jose “Pete” Lacaba from political detention—made him relent. He was proclaimed National Artist for Literature in Malacañang on March 27, 1976. Before his death in 2004, he had bequeathed his National Artist medallion to Our Lady of the Rosary La Naval de Manila. Nowadays, Roco would recall how they dealt with the persistent gossip. “I said to Nick, ‘We do love each other, don’t we? I love you, and you love me,’” she said. “But there was nothing romantic or malicious about our relationship. We were simply best friends.” Joaquin had other friends in Artlets, such as my English teacher, Corinta Barranco, who belonged to the Guerrero clan of Ermita, so he could be seen attending academic forums in the college. But the selfeffacing person that he was, he didn’t like taking an active part in them or, even less, delivering lectures. But of course, there was Roco to soften his resistance and make him engage in public speaking, so the college administration asked her to invite Joaquin to deliver the 14th Thomas More Lecture in

HIS STORIED LIFE

Clockwise from top: Joaquin photographed by Neal Oshima; Joaquin’s National Press Club ID; having a beer and exchanging stories with former president Fidel Ramos (with Joaquin protege Jose “Pete” Lacaba on the left); Roco photographed last September outside the University of Santo Tomas Hospital, where she has had her regular medical checkups since surviving pneumonia (she turns 90 this October); Joaquin, here with Imelda Marcos, wearing his National Artist medal which he agreed to accept only if the government released his friend and colleague Jose “Pete” Lacaba from incarceration.

ISSUE 114

FAMOUS ROGUE October 2017

LEANDRO V. LOCSIN, architect THE 1969 INAUGURATION of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, the first structure to rise in a planned district dedicated to the arts and international exhibitions, signaled the country’s crash entry onto the world stage. Some critics deemed it part of an ambitious scheme to present the nation’s emerging (and fabricated, as Marcos oppositionists claim) identity as a new and modern society. The theater, in all its brutalist glory, would become as iconic and controversial as the other startling structures that comprised architect Leandro V. Locsin’s body of work—from the Folk Arts Theater and Philippine International Convention Center to the Makati Stock Exchange. Fueled by the patronage of Imelda Marcos, Locsin would find himself entangled in political undercurrents for the rest of his life, the straightforward geometry of his designs inextricably linked with the narrative of power. But as the veil of his fallen patrons’ myth falls away, perhaps the concrete skins and massive volumes of his creations stand today as a testament to a man with remarkable talent— one who possessed not a developer’s pen, an engineer’s rationality, or a marketer’s hype, but an artist’s soul.

A 1968 portrait of Locsin and his wife Cecilia Araneta Yulo, painted by Claudio Bravo during the society painter’s six-month stay in Manila.

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