MANILA, Philippines- When I was a child, as I still am, I thought like a child, and believed nothing could be more terrifying than being apart from my parents. My mother made me a little dove from paper and string, which I pulled along behind me wherever I went. She was a made thing, this dove, and though she could not sing, my mother’s heart completed her into a work of art.
See, everything my mother ever touches magically bouquets into a chiaroscuro of laughter and tears. She knows what it means to first dig a hole — deep, deep into the ground — when a castle in the sky awaits. She understands the complexities of the human soul, the ups and downs of wavering emotion, the importance of her devotion to pursuits of the spirit. As an artist of limitless talents, my mother creates things — whether with her hands, her words, her thoughts, or her actions — and doesn’t stop there. She creates things solely to continue her creation of her-self, someone who, even in the darkest moments, can laugh with all her heart and see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Growing up as the youngest daughter of my artist parents, I imagined myself to be their “little assistant.” With my own mini-easel in hand, and my very own personalized apron (which my mom made from scratch), I felt armed with the badge of “uniqueness” that most other children my age didn’t have. From galleries, to museums, to performance-art events, to late-night art-speak repartee and debates at smoky art bars, I spent my every waking moment accompanying my parents, and paying close attention to their every move. I fantasized about the glamour of being an artist — an anti-machine, a free spirit, a bohemian (if you wish), and a soldier for a lost cause.
What I hadn’t realized then was that the term “soldier” was to leave a mark on me so indelible that it completely altered my perception of my mother. Being an artist wife to an artist husband meant that she would sometimes have to lie awake at night, perplexed with the thought of how to feed her family the next day. It meant striving to express herself while the rest of the waking world busied itself with the mundane. It meant remaining strong for her husband, my father, Cesar Syjuco, whose genius naturally came with its many intellectual darknesses. It meant explaining to her children, day in and day out, why being different was a strength rather than a weakness. Most of all, it meant constantly unraveling ways to remain a woman — a real woman — of grace, and substance, and kindness and beauty — even when the wolves of the world came huffing and puffing at our door.
Everything I ever believed to be golden about the silver hues of an artistic existence was stripped of its sheen. What remained, upon my realization of how much of a soldier my mom really was, was something even better. It was raw, and real. It was the word “passion” scintillating like a singular light bulb in a Dungeon of Why. My mom possessed this passion — this heart — and it was through her courage that all other supposed problems and tribulations became nothing more than reason to fight even harder. By mere example, she showed me that being an artist meant forcing yourself to discover who you really are. It meant eating and breathing passion, the way she did (and continues to do).
It is through my mother that I have learned the meaning of being a real artist, and a real woman. She has taught me how to love something so much that even its uglinesses are embraced as beautiful. Despite the hardships that came with being the working-woman/artist that she was, she never quit. She never gave up on any of us. She never doubted herself. She never looked back, and thus transformed herself into a living work of art.
Until now, it never ceases to amaze me how she can juggle a million and one things, and still look even more beautiful than she did yesterday. Her passion radiates from deep within, where it matters, and where nothing ever tarnishes.
Throughout my life, my mother has remained my “first” — she was there when I took my very first step, she was there when I first sat inside a school classroom, she rehearsed me for my very first school play, she accompanied me to my first fashion pictorial, she encouraged me to complete my first book of poems, she inspired me to mount my first art exhibition, and she continues to be there as I carefully carve my niche into this world.
Today, I may still be a child, I may still think like a child, and still believe nothing more terrifying than being apart from my parents. But just as my mother did for me many years ago, I fold a little dove from paper and string, and pull it along behind me wherever I go. It’s a made thing, this dove, and though it has no wings, my mother has taught me to give it heart, and watch it fly.
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Maxine Syjuco is a poet and visual artist. She is the youngest daughter of multi-awarded artists Cesare A.X. Syjuco and Jean Marie Syjuco. Her mother, Jean Marie, is Manila’s foremost exponent of Performance Art. For over three decades, she has balanced her roles as a commercially successful painter, sculptor, installation artist and performance artist.