Water in the canvas of my life
I was very thrilled when Henry Sy and his son Hans asked me to tackle this monumental piece of painting, and at the same time frightened that at my age, 77, and with a forthcoming exhibition I am opening at the Ayala Museum on November 23, I would be like someone in the ring with Pacquiao.
I very sincerely told them that I was extremely happy they wanted me to find the strength and inspiration at a relatively short time. Hans has known me from his tenderest infancy, followed by our constant chapters of great human bonding, friendship and him starting to collect my works. Also, they were behind my first breakthrough in the Philippines when they lent me a whole floor for my first retrospective in one of their buildings in Makati. Later we did an incredible retrospective show at SM Megamall, encompassing 16 simultaneous exhibitions in 16 galleries, which were the backbone of SM’s Art Walk.
Thus, how could I refuse to do this mural for them since they were allowing me to work at my speed and rhythm and flights? Not when I had the muses for inspiration, carte blanche, their complete trust and understanding that I was not a machine, and the fact that I’ve always wanted to give back to the Sys.
But was it possible to do?
The following vignettes have to do with water as a symbol of growth and fertility, which I have entitled “The Tides of Fortune.” It is also about growing up together as neighbors, as Henry and I came to this very hospitable country as immigrants. Both our fathers made good and did well here, perhaps even beyond and above what they dreamed possible.
1. On Summer
Summer, this open window of warm light that also brings thirst and scorching and blistering effects to the skin of a blue-eyed little devil like myself. One day could be a great pleasure and the next may turn unfavorable, as when astronomers tell us about the effects of solstices, equinoxes and precessions — the summer whims of our lord “The Sun.”
Little did this matter to a kid like myself living deliciously quite close to the Pasig River in Manila. What mattered then, as they still do now, were the fragrances of the dama de noche, the champaca, and the inebriating sampaguita. In the summer evenings, there was such sweet melancholy as the sun bid goodbye in a blaze, and the lingering blues and violets emerged in the twilight and cooled the air. In the summer, the perfumed oils released by the flowers made one’s senses rejoice.
I have always felt in the mood for affection and tenderness in this ambience of the tropical night. As a child, of course I did not at all know what this would lead up to later on in terms of one’s adolescent urgencies and heightened sensual perceptions. The basic drives were defined as underlying the most fundamental conclusions to last a lifetime. Summer to this youngster growing up in Paco was a period that highlighted one’s progressing maturity, when the sparks of internal combustions brought about the growing awareness of “the other” and love. It marked the beginning of the end of innocence. The pessimist may comment that the end of innocence is also the beginning of progressive decay. Then again, upon further musing, isn’t decay essential for the nourishment of new life — with us from dust to dust?
This bath of heat produced visions of color consoling whatever low points I had on my way to the delights of realized ambitions. With it began an introspection that fueled an ever-growing maturity in my creative endeavors.
2. Water
A long with summer, water — lolling in the water, entranced by the mirages of the brilliance of the riffles leaping into life — has been a constant companion throughout my life, allowing me to express nature in my works. The intricacies of landscapes, vegetations and flowers have dominated two-thirds of my mature life as I slowly began shedding the expressionist drama of my post-war lingering images. Some of my first bouquet paintings clearly show a lingering drama vein.
The water elements in my mental and visual formation may have started quite early in and around Spain in my very tender childhood. I have photos of myself with my sister sitting with friends on rocks in a river very similar to the rivers and creeks of prewar Montalban, Novaliches, and the rocky beaches of Matabungkay.
3. Hermana Mayor
A truly heavenly place was Benny Toda’s Hermana Mayor, his private island off Zambales, with its pink beaches, dazzling azures in the sea, unspoiled forests, wisely integrated native-looking structures, and thoroughly modern comforts offered by one of the most generous hosts I’ve ever encountered. The company was excellent!
We all arrived in Benny’s private planes, relishing the life of Filipino maharajas. One particular private joy I discovered there was riding from the central house to the pink beach aboard the numerous open-air jeeps. I discovered that by closing my eyes and allowing the sun to strike directly on my eyelids as we drove through the forest, I would have visions of the most dazzling fireworks as the leaves high on the trees constantly broke up the sun into patches of shadows and chips of light . . . truly stunning!
4. The Pasig River, Gauguin And The Secret Garden
During the sunny months, as a child I would explore the surroundings near our residence by the Pasig River. My summertime adventures took me to a secret trysting nest between the high wall of a factory fronting Manila’s rivers and a grassy narrow passage protected from view by all kinds of wild vegetation in a giddy race to out-top one another.
Unknown to the grownups — like my parents — this grassy passage was the illicit meeting place of lovers. Much later, when I first came to know the works of Gauguin, I immediately and vividly recalled my chance encounters of the couples, the household staff of the neighboring houses, in what, in youthful ignorance, I thought was a “quarrel” around the grassy area along the Pasig River. From a distance, my young and shy mind would espy a couple almost furiously engaged. I would quickly be reassured, when this all ended up in such kind, tender stroking of the bodies and warm embraces that did not convey anger at all, that everything was fine.
They would then continue their huffing and puffing, not minding my presence. It was so touching! Wishing each other well and more opportunities to see each other, they would act as if I was not there. I was careful not to tell the other kids about this secret garden of the senses, where the five senses were satisfied there with the smell of the wild grass trampled and the flowers like cadena de amor (appropriately adorning the object of affection); the sounds of swarms of birds wheeling and crying and swooping; and the taste of the wild aratiles and all sorts of wild berries there to complete my delight. The impact on my memory upon seeing the sensuality of Gauguin’s Tahiti realm brought back to mind a delicious secret of early childhood I had not shared till now with anyone.
5. Brittany
In the early 1960s, summer also meant lugging about sketchbooks that weighed about a ton-a-half, color tubes, and all sorts of brushes on to Brittany, in the Northeastern France, on the tip of the peninsula. Brittany of the pink rocks and fabulous perspectives of light and massive forms of granite. It was so overwhelmingly new to me that I could only contemplate and salivate before this grandiose natural wonder.
It took me two years of just looking about and not daring to defile this offering — not painting a single thing. I was so awed by its natural beauty. In time, I started very timidly with what I thought were anemic sketches of enchanting scenery. Today, revisiting these works and seeing them much later, I find them to be more than adequate; a delightful gentle treatment of what I felt then resulting in an artwork perhaps in poetry akin to the Japanese haiku.
It was in Brittany where I enjoyed the company of my impeccable friends, Yves and Agnes Le Dantec, for some 23 years. Mr. Le Dantec was a very busy person even during summer for he was the managing director of France’s most widely read newspaper, Ouest-France with over 1,000,000 copies in circulation daily. He had created it along with an obscure asthmatic Breton newspaper. Mrs. Le Dantec, on the other hand, was the daughter of the great master Georges Rouault. The couple treated me with infinite kindness through the years, despite their busy work schedules and the demands of parental duties to three children. I owe them my entire Breton adventure.
As I began painting in Brittany, I fell into a routine with Mr. Le Dantec. In the mornings, he would drive me to the rocks with all my painting paraphernalia, a vast expanse with no shelter to run to in case of rain. He would then pick me up for lunch, and then drive me back to the landscape, and pick me up again for dinner . . . more than good enough!
Mr. Le Dantec would also constantly watch the sky on the drive back and forth that at some point I would ask to be rescued, along with my works that were vulnerable with fresh paint, in case of rain.
Brittany has one of the most capricious weathers in France, with instant storms that brew without warning and smash on the coasts in sudden spasms. But the glorious sun was such a splendor when in a good mood, and it is quite impossible to describe the effects of these dramatic changes in color, intensity and tones.
The tides, on the other hand, are a wonder to behold for they are quite extreme; during low tide, water recedes from the shore by as much as 12 meters. In Brittany, you can revisit the same spot again and again and find an ever-changing landscape.
If I remember correctly, the tides advance at the same time every day for some 45 minutes. Thus, what was a quiet bay with placid islets, faraway coves and beaches, would slowly change with the roaring waves crashing on the protective boulders at the end of the tidal cycle — a most awesome energy running against sheer naked rocks.
I had once started on terra firma but was so engrossed in my work that I had forgotten the perils of the tides. Before I knew it, the tides had crept up and I was sitting on a tiny island though I had not moved an inch. I had to gather all my stuff on my head and walk through what must have been the coldest water I can remember, balancing on submerged uneven rocks. I walked more than two kilometers to where my very worried friends were waiting, way beyond the appointed meeting time. I was drenched up to my neck and shivering like a storm-beaten leaf. I still wonder why I didn’t catch pneumonia then.
There are many accidents on this invigorating coast as many tourists are caught unawares in the natural turmoil, a sudden wildness that may surge in a snap of the fingers. I had been careful then, having been duly warned by my friends of the temper of the tides, and yet Brittany’s magic still cast its spell on me — I was so thoroughly enamored of the landscape, even beyond prudence, that I ended up in the middle of the sea.
Apart from frolicking on the beach and mountain climbing, a sojourn in Brittany also meant long happy hours of painting the rocky coast and Scrabble at night where each of us defended his ranking in the game as if it was a matter of life and death. My disadvantage was enormous for I was quite a novice in French. I did not seek to win, and reveled instead in the opportunity of a very good lesson in the mechanics of the language. Mr. Le Dantec was, after all, a holder of law doctorate, a degree in journalism and another from the national school of diplomats. Another player had been a dean of many schools. I did not stand a shadow of a chance, and they had quite a lot of fun teasing me.
French is a very difficult language and its infinite intricacies sometimes stumped the very learned among us, too. I learned quite fast to circumvent some difficulties by not trying to hit the highest scorings and instead by blocking their strategies to lower their upsurges. They were furious when, thanks to my little strategy, I would sometimes place second. When I had first met the Le Dantec couple they told me how “charming” was my (carabao) French. Back then I had asked them to do me a most coveted favor: don’t spare the rod, I had requested, and please correct me every time I make a mistake for I’m dying to speak and write correctly. And they were kind enough to keep to their word — after 24 years of the Le Dantec couple faithfully watching out for my errors, my French is now on the level of my English.
6. Villanova
Other summer milestones that influenced my work were my stints at Villanova (near Barcelona) where I have most kind and affectionate friends. Since my good friend in Brittany had died, I never was able to face the former Breton haunts. Then by a good chance I had a most warm reception at Villanova care of a lovely couple. He is a noted businessman and she is a famous international concert pianist. We met here in Manila when she was on an international tour.
I did a lot of sketching in the old part of this seaside fishing and industrial port called Villanova, which by grace, had very good beaches to boot. One day the couple offered me an empty house they owned just around the corner for me to mess up if necessary with my paints and colors.
What a joy! I used if for several summers and other seasons of the following years where my “Villanova Flowers” came to fruition. It is still most probably my happiest cycle of happy colors and subjects; fortunately, this happy state continues to this day in this happy maturity!
Villanova is surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea and very striking, craggy hills set about with trees and ledges of rock plunging straight down into the blue sea. On the way, the train to Barcelona sweeps along the coast and may afford you a fast peek at some nudist onlookers. Most of the time the passengers don’t give a train’s hoot about the stark-naked bodies in display unashamedly. Viva la libertad! Not once have I heard a critical remark from the train passengers as the nudists have actually become part of the au naturel landscape.
The naked body stopped being sinful... at least there.
