Ah, yes, be careful what you wish for.
The humidity over the past weeks had been as high as my President’s trust ratings that I openly advocated for the first cleansing storm of the season. That wish was expressed to my sons over dinner Sunday before last.
News came the next day of a howler brewing off Bicol. Oh, there it is, finally, I thought, about time too, since we were already deep into July. By Tuesday afternoon we had pitter-patter rain and a bit of wind, both quite welcome. I had to make a rare foray to Wow, Cubao, and by the time I got there the streets at Araneta Center were all wet, with so-called negative ions churning in the air, energizing everyone at sundown rush-hour.
Old buddy Luigi Francia’s history book was being launched at National Bookstore, its largest branch, to my knowledge. But there was time to spare for entering Gateway and escalating up five floors to Sining Kamalig for a long-delayed pick-up.
Sometime last year, Paris-based Iya Fernandez had a show there, which this old friend missed, the gall. But sweet Iya, who had once provided a pen-and-ink drawing for an Ophie Dimalanta book (Time Factor and Other Poems) I had helped design still saw fit to leave one artwork in my name. And Simon Balboa whose parents used to run the orig Sining Kamalig on Taft Avenue in the ’70s kept reminding me when we crossed sosyal paths that it was still waiting.
The gallery’s lady attendant wasn’t sure which one it was, however. She said Simon had just gone down to attend a book launch across the street. Oh, so I’ll just see him there, I said.
NBS @ Araneta Center was spic-and-span and had all five floors airconned, a far cry from when I used to scour its upper floors for dusty titles among the sale bins. Where NBS and Anvil were hosting the launch on the third floor, what greeted me on a low display shelf was the travel coffee-table book Philippines: Islands of Enchantment, which I had provided the full text for nearly a decade ago, to partner with photographs by George Tappan. I noted a new edition with a change in cover design.
Alas, it goes with old age: a memory of slights. A year or so ago I received e-mail from a Pinay staffer of Periplus Editions of Singapore, asking if I could update some of the book’s text, maybe replace Efren “Bata” Reyes with Manny Pacquiao as our current sports darling. Sure, I replied, but you know what, I’ve always wondered about annual royalty fees since George told me he had been getting his, and the book’s been selling well as far as we know. The lady promised to look into the matter.
In a trice she was back in my inbox, profuse with apologies, Actually, she confided, the updating task had fallen on her, but out of respect for my venerability, heh heh, she thought she’d rather not touch my text and see if I’d be willing to do it myself. But now, as it turns out, their finance guys had told her that my deathless prose had been paid for in full, as a one-time, straight-up fee. I wasn’t entitled to any royalties at all, unlike George who had been savvy enough to nego a contract that gave him annual dividends, and fresh fees every time he replaced some photos.
Hmm. So that was that. My cavalier idiocy with regard to book-writing commissions and contracts had deprived me of perennial gratuities. “K lang,” I assured her. “Ganun pala ’yun. Bahala na lang yang Periplus niyo, kung mag-galante sila, at nagpa-artist kasi ko, eh.” So that was that. I still don’t know if the young lady had scratched off Bata Reyes in favor of a fresh Pinoy champ. I didn’t have the heart to compare the two editions staring me in the face from that NBS shelf.
Besides, the barong-Tagalog-clad Luigi, our alpha Romeo of last week’s photo in this space, was already orating on his book. He read from it, too, even as more guests kept coming, saying the rains had gotten in their early way. Traded “Muzta PoHwsZ” with artist Gus Albor, who had just handed me a handsome coffee-table book on his life’s art, titled Immaterial (still to be launched), and film peeps Cesar Hernando and Raymond Red, the latter still flush with an awards triumph for his last indie film Himpapawid.
Jazz diva (she hates that term, so I keep using it for her) Mishka Adams, visiting from London for a fortnight of recording sessions for her third Candid CD album, came with her mom, my soul sis Agnes Arellano, the most eroticized of our fine sculptors, together with her soulmate Billy Bonnevie, music maker. Ag whispered something about a despedida dinner for Mish the next evening. Holryt, great, except she’s leaving us again.
Another visiting firewoman was our old-Manhattan buddy Loida Nicolas Lewis, who has stayed on after leading a top-tier Fil-Am delegation back here for a confab and thank-you’s for their support from Prez Noynoy right in the Palace. Loida’s still around cuz there was an engagement party last week for her daughter Cristina, while her other daughter Leslie will be performing a one-woman theater act this weekend.
Oh, and poet-buddies Pete Lacaba and Marra PL Lanot came in late, too, giving the Salinawit King and me no time to trade notes on our latest whisky finds. By the time Luigi had fielded all the pertinent questions and everyone trooped to the buffet table, I found myself across a tall cocktails table from Simon, who said I could go back to Sining Kamalig and select the Iya artwork of my choice. Why, great! Wow, Cubao!
He also introed a young art writer named Hannah, who turned out to still be schooling in Ateneo. She said she had learned a lot about creative non-fiction from an excellent teacher, Karla Delgado. Yes you would have, I said. I told the young girl to find out from Fine Arts why Ateneo lost Karla for the sem.
Crossing over from NBS back to Gateway, I thought of reporting the matter to good friend Karla, whom I had last seen at a wild Malate party. Gracious as ever, she texted back that she might be back in Ateneo soon, but for now she was vacationing in Greece, and would make sure she brought me back some ouzo.
Yup, such is life, such are its blessings that one learns of while crossing a street in Cubao named after some general. And at Sining Kamalig I take some time choosing my Iya artwork, from four acrylic pieces laid out before me. Finally I settle for an Antipolo Gardens edition, and I am pleased and content to get back home in the rain for late dinner.
I’m watching the replay of our Illuminati with Krip & Trix (Syjuco) arts and culture show on GNN at Destiny cable, with artist Pandy Aviado as our highly articulate guest, when the power conks out close to 11 p.m. And it becomes a long night of frustration (no Internet, no work, no TV, in that order) and sleeplessness even with subsequent Zen forbearance, since a media agua up on the roof keeps flapping noisily and threatening to fly off, and a son is still due back from a hip-hop gig at Freedom Bar in QC. As it turns out, he doesn’t make it through the flood on Katipunan, and has to be rescued from a gas station at 4:30 a.m. by our trusty and sleepless driver.
The next morning the fallback is an old ritual: cappuccino and Internet at Starbucks, until the lights get back at mid-afternoon. But when the hip-hopper son (whom I understand is becoming quite the celebrity for his rap battle emceeing seen by many at a site called fliptop) and I arrive at Agnes’ place at Blueridge B, we are welcomed by the remains of a candlelit dinner.
There is another caliber of power that’s on, right in the garden, where the music makers who had all helped out in Mishka’s recording sessions are gathered, quietly listening to the raw tape. In the dark I recognize the luminous Master Yoda, a.k.a. Koyang a.k.a. Ed Avenir, guitar virtuoso. And there’s bassist Simon Tan, frequent bandmate of our older son Aya, and baritone saxophonist Roxie Modesto, daughter of artist non pareil “Mo-de!”
She says she’s off to Singapore the next morning to join my idol Lourd de Veyra and Sago for a festival gig. Ah, I breathe a sigh of relief that he isn’t being hounded out of brownout town for his superb satirical piece imploring for “the separation of Kris and State.”
We get introed to veteran percussionist Mar Dizon, who plays with Simon and Aya at Freedom Bar on Monday nights, as the Akasha quartet, sometimes quintet. There’s also the venerable Mel Villena listening in to the tracks, where his daughter Ria plays some keyboards.
On a battery-run transistor cassette player, Mishka is in fine-fettle voice, doing covers of slinky standards, a number of them French like La vie en Rose — all personally selected by Candid International’s big boss Alan Bates, as his personal faves. They include Dahil Sa Iyo, which segues to a Mexican song that sounds much like it. Mishka says an Argentine friend in London had alerted her about the piece upon hearing her sing Dahil Sa Iyo. Now, which one was composed first? We’ll find out, albeit it doesn’t matter much beyond trivia curiosa, given the post-typhoon ions in the air that are much like musical notes one can pluck sans benefit of any galleon trade.
What matters is the truism that in the company of these exalted artists who make music, somehow Glenlivet single malt slides into one’s gullet with a more velvety finish, and sparks are always up there in ether, whether everyone’s just quietly listening to the music they’ve made, or trading funny comments after a track.
After the listening session, it’s still a good hour where most everyone stays, except for Zeny Celdran of the P.I. Jazz who has an early wake-up call. And Mel Villena tells of how Zen reminds him of German songs sung in the cabaret style, the torch singer in net stockings and seated astride an inverted chair, blowing O-rings of smoke when she puffs. And how at some point the scar-faced supermen turn maudlin when a Yuletide number is sung, and everyone dreams wistfully of an armistice.
There is no peace in the company of artists, especially the makers of music, as sparks always fly, off the handle or out of left field, out there in camaraderie’s candlelit gardens.