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Never trust an artist. Especially when they’re talking about their work. (I’m a liar myself so I know what I’m talking about; I ain’t no artist so I get off easy.) For example, Andre Breton and the rest of the Surrealists sure proved to be adept at using words more than any art movement before it. In the case of Salvador Dali alone, one could contend that his writings like his autobiography and titles of paintings like, ‘Suburbs of the Paranoic-Critical town: Afternoon on the outskirts of European history" are examples of the painter’s masterly command of language and the brave, new ways of using it. Of course, most of it is bullshit. (Great paintings though. In my opinion, still some of the most important of the 20th century.)

It’s hard though not to fall into the habit of nodding in approval to every word by conceptual artist Bea Camacho. For someone whose works explores issues of emotional distance and isolation, Bea has no problem communicating in conversation the themes of her ongoing show at the CCP’s Bulwagang Fernando Amorsolo small gallery. Curated by Roberto Chabet, the show is entitled "Blind Transmission" and, according to the artist, it aims to address "physical, emotional and mental separation." In letter, this sounds quite weighty – especially if you discover that Camacho is a summa cum laude Harvard graduate. However, she explains her work with such bonhomie and conviction that it never becomes off-putting. Reading her text regarding the pieces, the same quality is evident. For a work called, "Twelve Hours Ahead" she writes:

There is a telephone on the floor with an answering machine and desk lamp. The artist’s parents in the Philippines have the number for this phone but they do not know that the phone is in a gallery. If they call, the phone will ring and their message will play out loud as it is being recorded on the answering machine. A light on the answering machine indicates how many messages they have left. They might not call.

For another work entitled, "Packing Project", she writes:

The artist is packing up all her belongings. This happens gradually over the course of two months. All of the belongings are organized and placed in labeled boxes. The boxes are left open or sealed according to whether or not they need to be accessed by the artist. The boxes will be moved to the Carpenter Center for the thesis exhibit and the artist might need to fetch belongings from the gallery. Eventually all of her belongings will be packed up, including the other artwork that she has in the show. At the end of the show, the boxes will be sealed and they will be moved out of the gallery to be shipped away.

The text places a poignant emphasis on these unremarkable objects, flooding them with a laconic melancholy like an Adrian Tomine comic. In her artist’s statement, Camacho writes, "My experience of having left home at the age of eleven informs and inspires this work. Growing up away from my family produced an emotional distance between us that came to outweigh the physical distance and makes me feel removed from them even when I am with them." One of the most (dare I say it?) touching installations is a collection called, "Red Hats". Composed of crocheted hats – one for each member of her immediate family in the Philippines – and made from memory, it had red pompoms that extend the length of Camacho’s height. The final part of the work is the sending back of the hats to be worn by the entire family. It is genuinely moving to see the photographs of Bea’s family wearing the hats and their earnest smiles.

Camacho’s talent is not visual splendor but rather a Martian poetry of the humdrum and everyday. It is an honest attempt to understand the difficult task of trying to reconcile relationships and the keepsakes that hold most of the sentimental weight for them. Ultimately, I imagine it’s her way of putting into some sort of context her own self.

Of course, I could be wrong.