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We Sort of Made It Through, completed January 2016

This is a passion project of sorts, borne both out of boredom and a thirst for creating something that is my own (most of my creative outputs by then have been for orgs and acads and I guess I just wanted to test myself, see if I was still able to create according to my own taste).

The zine is composed of various collages, odd pieces, and snippets of blackout poetry. At the last page of the zine I’ve included a personal note with a line that goes “an exercise in trust, in mistakes which can be good.”

Indeed, I was attacking each blank canvas blindly. There was no guiding skeleton for the zine, I went by page by page. The exercise was a manifestation of how I’d transformed, I supposed, in 2015. In that year I had learned to trust the outside world more, and be comfortable with the fact that I can’t control everything. The world was moving whether I was ready and willing or not, and instead of holding back or being overwhelmed, I just best be moving with it.

#art #analog

Viva, Viva Escolta!

Submitted December 22, 2106. Our final requirement for J 123 (Photojournalism) was to produce our own photo essay, complete with write-up and captions. I chose to cover Escolta street (more backstory, personal keme).

Created in 1594, Calle Escolta or Escolta Street is one of the very first streets paved during the Spanish rule in the 16th century. It began as a commerce center first occupied by migrant Chinese businessmen, and soon flourished into a full-blown business district housing buildings such as the Manila Stock Exchange. This continued up until the 1960s when business activity gradually shifted to Makati. Escolta is now commonly known for its heritage sites and, more recently, as a booming artistic hub.

During its golden years in the early 20th century, Manila was a sprawling city rich with various business sectors that seemed to gleam in commercial success. One street in particular, encompassing the commerce districts of Santa Cruz and Binondo, stood out for its sky-high and magnificent structures, put up no less by renowned, innovative designed Andres Luna and Fernando Ocampo, to name a few. These buildings, now labeled as heritage sites, were filled to the brim with activity—stock exchange, department stores, restaurants, and cinemas defined the street.

Flourished in this bustle, Calle Escolta came to be one of the most well-known streets of its time. Tagged as the “Queen of Manila Streets”, Escolta existed in grandeur for years. Aside from its inimitable beauty, the street was known to be both resilient for having survived the destruction of World War II, and as well as elegant for the shops that lined the street commanded and invited fine taste. Manila’s characteristic squalor remained only on the fringes.

Today however, it is gradually descending from our collective memory one neglected heritage building at a time.

At the dawn of the new millennium, massive malls started replacing department stores, big banks local banks, and cineplexes the good old movie theater. Makati had also boomed overnight into the newest commercial district. Its fast-paced modernity attracted entrepreneurs and businessmen to relocate from the decaying street to the promising city.

Additionally, Escolta’s beautiful buildings had started decaying—it couldn’t put up a good fight with the sleek and modern builds of the newer districts.

So despite escaping demolition and destruction in the last war, they now face a new one. Not of bombs, but of developers seeking to renew Escolta and have it keep up with our modern times.

Government agencies such as the National Commission on Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and National Historical Commission of the Philippines (NCHP) have attempted to preserve history by acquiring the abandoned heritage sites and make them public, but according to Kat Candelaria of the Escolta Revival Movement (ERM) even the government cannot fight modernization.

“Kahit protected na ‘yan ng mga NCCA at NCHP, wala ‘e, ginigiba pa rin,” says Kat.

There is resistance however, by groups such as the ERM that call for the preservation, celebration, and restoration of the historic street. One strategy of such groups is to strengthen the identity of Escolta—not just in terms of the past but the present as well.

“It’s not feasible to revive Escolta as a business district, so we’re reviving it through art,” says Candelaria.

Indeed, in recent years Escolta has evolved from hosting businesses to now something a little bit more colorful—art. The street’s crumbling, neglected structures seemed to have struck a chord with independent and struggling artists, who have made full use of the abandoned space by converting it into makeshift movie theaters, galleries, exhibits, and markets. Slowly but surely, people are pouring back in but this time not only for its glamorous modernity but as well as for its rich, untangled past—acknowledged and unforgotten.

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#writing #j123

Restoration and A Call for More: A look into the efforts of the industry and an appeal for more

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Archival, preservation, and restoration efforts are not lost in Philippine cinema. The urgency of this call has been acknowledged and acted-upon by many institutions both in private and public sectors. Given the advocacy could’ve started earlier, the efforts are still commendable nonetheless.

In 2011, the Film Development Council of the Philippines (FCDP) established the National Film Archive of the Philippines (NFAP), a sort of reinstatement of the original state-funded film archive Film Archives of the Philippines (FAP), which was set-up in 1982 under Marcos’ rule and closed down shortly after the regime’s ouster in 1986. The NFAP has the stated objective of “protecting and safe-keeping the country’s cultural legacy in film through the retrieval and preservation of film prints, digital masters and related material.”

Since its establishment five years ago it has so far lived-up to this promise; the NFAP has successfully restored the 1950 film Genghis Khan by Manuel Conde and Maynila sa Kuko ng Liwanag, the 1975 Lino Brocka masterpiece. According to FCDP chair Briccio Santos, the institution also has deposited in its archives the entire Sampaguita Pictures collection, and as well as the inventories of the National Historical Commission and the University of the Philippines Film Institute. They have roughly 200 titles stored for safe-keeping at its temperature controlled facility located in Cubao (the original plan to establish a more permanent and exceptional storage facility in Tagaytay still has yet to manifest).

In the private sectors, perhaps the effort has been more palpable and apparent.

Specifically, the ABS-CBN Film Archives has initiated a similar project called the ABS-CBN Film Restoration Project, also established in 2011. The broadcasting company currently holds around 2, 400 titles, including works from Star Cinema, LVN Pictures, Regal Films, VIVA Films, Seiko Films, Cinema Artists, Sampaguita Pictures, and as well as the personal cinema libraries of Nora Aunor, Fernando Poe Jr., Rudy Fernandez and so much more. It is the biggest film collection in the Philippines. ABS-CBN also has the premiere temperature-controlled archival storage facility in the country.

In partnership with Central Digital Lab, ABS-CBN launched the Sagip-Pelikula campaign, with the restoration of classic Filipino films as its advocacy. This includes titles such as Karnal, Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon? and more recently, Patayin sa Sindak si Barbara and Got 2 Believe. Sagip Pelikula holds regular cinema premiers, roadshows, book launches, DVD releases, and TV guestings to further its reach to the masses.

Again, while these efforts are highly commendable especially in the face of a declining appreciation for the arts, it has to be said: these are not enough. These efforts are not enough in advancing the call for preservation and restoration as a significant way in molding a national cinema.

For these efforts to see true fulfillment, there are roughly three actions that have to be considered and addressed. First, people should understand why restoration is done. Second, the current process of restoration should be questioned. And third, the issue of accessibility and exclusivity in terms of restored films should be tackled.

For the first part: as much as there are efforts in raising awareness about projects such as these, this should also be coupled with the attempt to educate the public and make them understand why this restoration is unquestionably important.

It’s important because the Philippines has an illustrious cinematic history. Since 1897 the country produced around 8,000 films (of which an estimate of only around 3,000 have been saved). It’s vital to acknowledge, celebrate, and most importantly continue this legacy.

It’s also important because in the words of filmmaker and author Nick Deocampo, “Films after all are memories rolled into celluloid…In every film our past is made alive when the blast of light is emitted from a projector making all that is past present before our eyes again.” Films are a creative, living testament of the past. Reliving the past through films not only accomplishes a habit of remembering, but also strengthens cultural identity and therefore fosters national pride.

If appreciation can go with the spreading of awareness, then that is a remarkable achievement in itself.

For the second part: the process of restoration should be questioned for a fuller understanding and a more nuanced acceptance of what is being taken in—and if necessary, to know what measures should be taken to improve the process.

In less abstract terms, take the following into consideration:

The most successful restoration effort is Sagip Pelikula as it is able to make its efforts more available than the rest. But while Sagip Pelikula is commendable in its reach, it has to be noted that it is part of a commercial TV network; this almost inevitably constrains the nature of their archival efforts. One has to wonder about the restoration choices made and what they deem as true Filipino classics—is quality the true priority in mind, or is it marketability? As ABS is ultimately a commercial enterprise, it can be said that these doubts have their basis.

As mentioned, the original state project FAP closed down in 1986 and only followed up only in 2011. This 25-year gap saw many horror stories, including the intentional destruction of film archives. As Bliss Lim observes in her study Archival Fragility: Philippine Cinema and the Challenge of Sustainable Preservation, “the absence of a national archive led to an era of cooperation and collaboration in a decentralized archival advocacy among the largest remaining AV archives in the country.” This includes ABS-CBN. Archival efforts then became primarily privatized and decentralized. Thus it is crucial to question the priorities of these private projects. One can only hope the state-funded NFAP has a comparable budget to release its own set of classic films.

However, the focus of the struggle should not be of who is to keep and release the films—this is not a competition of who has the bigger collection to boast off. It is not even of partnerships, which should be a talk for another article. It is bigger than those, but for now, the third point should be made.

The issue of accessibility and exclusivity: it can be argued that this is inherently a film, and not just a restoration, problem. But placing that aside, Leo Katigbak, ABS-CBN Film Archives and Restoration head, has this to say, “What good is restored film kung ‘di napapanood?”

A vital point in restoration, especially in light of the immense expenses it requires, is accessibility. Restoration is done, hopefully, not in a vain attempt to glorify the industry and its achievements and capacities, but in an attempt to cultivate the masses into an appreciative, film literate, and discerning audience.

When these concerns among others are addressed, then perhaps the numerous restoration efforts done by film institutions can be even more remarkable and laudable as they actually, already are.

#writing #published #splice

#art #analog

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words

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#dokyu #mps

favorite lines

#art #digital

youngblood article

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j 111 cubao story

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dokyu: bj 101

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Back to Back

Inspired by Joan Didion’s the White Album

It’s a little after midday, peak-time for the scorching sun, and we’re running around simultaneously aimless and purposeful, despondent and hopeful, phenomenally tired and phenomenally pumped. “We” were little journalists, student journalists, on our first coverage assignment. We were at the most iconic street in Manila, at the aftermath of what was the 30th EDSA People Power anniversary which, after the speeches of many impressive men in scratchy barongs, and songs that sang about the glory of winning the revolution back in ‘86, returned from being a concrete event to a memory that held varying degrees of importance in varying degrees of, well, age among the Filipino people.

Many of whom I am facing right now went through extreme suffering during Martial Law, and to them I have little to say or add. My speech this morning is not for you but for the current generation, who have access to all sorts of freedoms.

“This is for the millennials, who in their idealism and ideologies, tend to forget about the past,” Paquito Ochoa said in the opening remarks of the event, dedicating the celebration to the younger generation. In a speech that preceded the president’s, Ochoa went on about the struggle of making the children of the digital age remember.

For godssake, remember.

The white and yellow confetti, flying with the officials’ words a while ago, had now settled on the heat-baked, emptied street. My classmates and I were scrambling for sources. We were optimistic at first, heading for Ochoa, Belmonte, and even Roxas for sound bites (one of us was actually able to reach the administration candidate, though when that classmate asked for a statement Roxas only gave out a hearty laugh and redirected his focus to the next question). However, the crowd was quickly diminishing—the more legitimate press with their microphones and cameras and polished, enameled smiles quickly followed the men and women in barongs and sayas; together in their cars they drove off wherever their exclusive itinerary led them to—and we had to make do with nuns who were too weak to keep up and who told their EDSA recollections a hundred times over and always ecstatically.

In this day and age, it may be difficult for you to grasp that sometime in our history, obtaining information wasn’t as easy as it is now. Back then, apart from comics, our papers also had a movie page, which was the only true news our newspapers had.

We were lucky enough to catch a woman who strode rather importantly, who wore a stiff yellow blazer, and who, apart from the slash of blonde in the middle of her edgy short hair, looked liked a potentially big source. I did not know her, but I went with my classmates who ran in pursuit of the woman anyway. “That’s Dinky!” one of them panted; we we’re running after Dinky Soliman, Secretary of the Department of Social Welfare and Development.

She was kind enough to indulge us, though like the rest she was in a constant agitated state to move on. “You’re from UP, eh? Ok, listen up.” Our phones, which we used as sound recorders, shot almost straight to her face in excitement. For us, Soliman recounted her UP activist days, how she’d join the commune, the rallies, fearlessly and without hesitation, and then how she’d hide in fear when the military came. “And they always came! Especially in UP, they were always there. But we fought on.”

Soliman recounted the horrors of Martial Law, in the same way the president did in his speech. “It may be hard for the youth to comprehend, but as I see it our president only told the truth of Martial Law. It did happen, Marcos did those things. You guys,” she said pointing at us, “think that our stories are works of fiction, of mere imagination; you think them too much to be true but they are.”

Now, if you’re a new graduate, they say you can go straight to Bora or any country without the authorities watching your every move. You can hangout without worrying about a curfew. Owning a car or a condominium isn’t a far-fetched dream.

We thanked her, and she smiled back, knowingly. She knew what we needed—catchy sound bites—and she delivered. Before rushing off, she giddily asked that we take a “we-fie” with her. We huddled close to her. “Group selfie, come on!”

Now, with just one touch of your smartphones, you can access information from any part of the world.

By now, we we’re the only ones on the deserted street save for some fellow students, street sweepers, a handful of armed police, and a few event organizers who probably lost more than a few sleep to see this event through and who, judging by the glazed look on their eyes, are still attempting to comprehend the fact that it’s over.

We all agreed we needed more sources to come up with a proper story. “I might add a few of my own words if we don’t find more soon,” one joked. Another took the comment seriously and said “Don’t do that. We’re out here for the truth.”

I cringe when I hear that there are those who refer to Marcos’ reign as the golden age of the Philippines. Maybe it is so, for him.

Since there were many of us each with our own working angle, we separated and interviewed all sorts of people. Some of us tried to pry on the veterans, the police, the students. There was an old, crotchety man, Leny, who had a lot to say about the celebration (such as: there shouldn’t be one—a celebration—to begin with). According to Leny, EDSA I was the start of the Filipino demise.

“Everything was so much better then! There was order, we had money! I had a job. Here in Manila. People were respectable, the economy was good.” The details of Leny’s exact position—social-wise, job-wise, etc.—we’re never made clear. He was too impassioned reliving what he referred to as “the glory days” to clear anything up, really. “Cory Aquino knew nothing. She just furthered the corruption and all those bad things.”

Leny came all the way from Mindanao; not since the ‘80s has he been back in Manila. Why attend the celebration then? “I just dropped by. I wanted to witness the stupidity,” he almost spat.

Are there any of you who can stomach the possibility of us returning to that time when all the horrors I’ve mentioned can happen to you, to your loved ones?

Mang Dany the sorbetero was another man we met who longed for the Philippines to return to Marcos’ reign. The sun was unrelenting, so a few of us took shelter in the ice-cream vendor’s wide, multi-colored umbrella. For small talk purposes we asked if he’d been to the actual EDSA revolution 30 years ago. He nodded. We asked what he’d been doing then. “Selling ice-cream. I’ve been doing this since around 1986.” Then his hard, crinkled exterior broke into a smile as we all realized this was his anniversary too. “Yes…I’ve been selling sorbetes for 30 years now,” he chuckled. Right at this spot too. “Little has changed since,” he added.

“Marcos was a good president. During his time things were much simpler. Kids didn’t curse back then—now it’s all they do. People had good jobs and the streets were cleaner. They should’ve gave him a chance, he was doing the country good.”

During his reign, in almost every corner of the Philippines, there were stories of people being suddenly kidnapped; stories of torture and death, of desparacidos, of bodies still missing to this day.

“Yeah…it was a subject requirement.”

For my coverage, I was going for a more millennial angle, so I decided to chat up some students I spotted loitering around the aftermath with us. I asked them simple questions, like what brought them here (their answer: the above), and what they thought of Aquino’s youth-addressed speech.

“He’s right. Yeah. We shouldn’t forget. We should remember. Yeah.” And do you agree that a lot of millennials are revising the past, wishing for Marcos to come back? “Yeah I know a few. But I don’t wish that. My friends don’t. But I guess there are some, yeah.”

To the youth: I wish you may understand what happened during EDSA. We set up a museum as part of the celebration, The EDSA People Power Experiential Museum, where you will be able to experience the harsh implementations during the dictatorship. May you use this opportunity to learn the importance of freedom and democracy, which are now in your hands.

Unlike the other students we approached, Karl met us, not the other way around. He was jumpy, his framed eyes darting everywhere, and when he spoke it was always a spill of words.

“I say never again, because Martial Law really is the darkest chapter in our history—this is what we millennials should remember. It wasn’t the golden age because we experienced cheap rice, cheap electricity, and supposedly peace and order. In exchange for those were lives…those martyrs, they were educated alright, but they decided still to sacrifice their lives for the freedom of this country! That’s what I wish we millennials would take to heart. We say never again to Martial Law, never forget the memories.”

All this (and a lot more) Karl said when asked simply for his thoughts about People Power. And when asked why he went, he simply said “To celebrate freedom.” “And you went on your own free will?” I pressed. “Yes on my own free will. No one forced me to participate, and no one should have.”

Certainly Karl was wise beyond his years. “The people who praise Marcos don’t realize that they’re utilizing the freedom that was won from him. It’s why we’re all here. I know as much as my peers do that my freedom wasn’t served in a silver platter—it was fought for, won with blood.”

These restrictions, this lack of freedom we experienced you might never recognize now. Things were unrecognizably different back then under the Marcos regime…

“The revolution isn’t over though. I wouldn’t be talking if it were,” Karl said. Across us on the other street, several groups holding placards, tarps, mascots, and banderas calling for justice, for freedom, for peace, for accountability, were forming. In a few hours they’ll start marching over to where we stand.

And where we stand the police were getting ready too. Whereas on the other side there was a restless buzz, over here the atmosphere was languid, sleepy even. Several of the police were leaning on walls, counting the hours before they had to form a barricade once more (Perhaps this is routine to them. Rally = disturbance = stop).

A government that oppresses the very people who gave it its power, a government that abuses its power…To those who claim that Mr. Marcos should not be blamed for all of what happened during his reign, this is what I say: If you grab all of the power, shouldn’t you also grab all of the responsibilities? (Applause)

At the spot where the biggest, most impactful rally was held people will soon be marching, protesting against the ills of today, not the past but today. Privatization of education, lingering imperialism, militarization and the plight of the Lumads…There’ll be collective cries that echo those made in vain 30 years past, and those cries will soon be muffled.

Now, we have the freedom to earn and save, to love and to start a family—we have the freedom to dream. Your generation will benefit from this the most if you value properly your inherited freedom; please take care of this responsibility. Let us help each other out so that darkness won’t return to the Philippines, so that the freedom we’ve longed for won’t ever be reclaimed from us once more.

(Applause)

Good day, thank you to you all.

#writing #cnf