Past Percentages: The Right to Rage

Bayo has announced that it’s most recent ad campaign isn’t over yet.

Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody’s power, that is not easy. - Aristotle

It’s strange, I think, because what I want to see in people these days is not mere anger–not what many would easily (and, without batting an eyelash) call being negative. What I want to see, is a thorough understanding of what makes them complex and why, when this complexity is simplified or glorified just when particular hybrid celebrities are on the rise, the instance becomes not mere advertising, but an attempt to follow a trend without question, and worse, an attempt to make profit on the concept of hybridity which is admittedly something that not many of us completely understand, or even bother to question at all.

Let me say this, at least, about the continuing Bayo ads: what disturbs me is not so much the ads themselves–not anymore–but the reaction that people have had to it. I feel that whereas Filipinos find it convenient to feel proud about the next international star, we are slow to anger where the questions of identity and nation are provided a reductionist answer.

At the same time, I’m perpetually astonished and disturbed by the ease in which people point out that there is no one of pure Filipino blood anymore, not because this sentiment has more than a grain of truth in it, but because it is used as an excuse not to be insulted. The fact that the copy is badly written is valid, but it is not the point here: grammar and its awkward wording can be forgiven, truly, I think. The greater question is why the copy seems so uncertain of itself; about why it feels the need to downplay what it’s really implying: “This is just all about MIXING and MATCHING…Call it biased but the mixing and matching of different nationalities with Filipino blood is almost a sure formula for someone beautiful and world class.”

People may say: “It’s just an advertisement! Get over it!” They’ll tell you, “You’re the one being unhelpful because you’re not supporting a Filipino brand.” They’ll insist that “You’re going against your own blood.” They will insist on the goodness of the intention–which may still be there; there is no reason to say otherwise. The problem is that when you emphasize the possible goodness of the intention, you tend to forget the actual failure of execution.

By all means, we should support Filipino brands. By all means, this is not to downplay the importance of the advertising industry. This is not even to encourage people to shun those who write copies or help companies with their branding (if so, then I should really just write a self-deprecating piece on all the copies I’ve produced since 2010, concluding with what a “sell out” I am). This is, in fact, to emphasize that advertising is a significant factor in our lives. And precisely because it affects everything–reading preferences, fashion, hygiene, family values, Internet downloads–then all the more should we learn to question its premises, scrutinize its meaning, root out where it went wrong from the depths of an apology that points its finger back to us and calls us too sensitive.

Because otherwise, we let ads about whitening creams fool us into thinking their product has nothing to do with social class. We smirk and move on (another great excuse for those who will not stop to question such matters: “Move on to more important issues!” they insist), until the next ad shocks us and we decide that hey, let’s take pride in this, without stopping to think what “this” actually is.

Don’t be fooled by people telling you it doesn’t matter.

It is your right to feel insulted. It is your right to feel belittled whether or not you are of mixed race or not (because you should not have to labor under the delusion that this ad does not discriminate against hybrids; in fact it reduces their identity in the same stroke which implies that blood is a product that can be improved). It is your right to find out, for yourself, what makes you special (no matter your heritage) and how you can then use that to the advantage of the third world country that you live in.

Make no mistake about it, it is the same right that will allow you to ask, how can Bayo hope to turn this around with its next two phases? It’s the same that will let us ask, how will changing the notion of percentage to local diversity and character traits make the campaign any better–or any different at all? It is a rage that is our birth right, one that cannot be measured by numbers. The fact, I think, that the campaign will continue, on a not altogether different premise but with only a few changes in words, tells us how much the outrage against the initial phase went misunderstood: simply flew over people’s heads.

So I urge you, open your eyes and claim this right to anger. Use it, not to inflict harm on others just as unquestioningly, but to question, ultimately, yourself, and the world around you. Allow yourself to see past celebrations of identity, to point out the struggle that is there, without completely diminishing the value of such celebrations. It’s not easy, and I know because I fail at it, too. But to not even try means to flatline, and I shudder to think that so many of us would be so willing to do that.

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Here’s Anthony Bourdain now, because I suspect he has a better-nuanced (note: not a “better-in-all-senses-of-the-word” type) understanding of [post]colonialism, and the kind of hybrid culture it gives birth to, than a lot of us care to admit, and because the irony of his being a white, straight male is not lost on me:

Peace in Poetry: Thoughts on Isabela Banzon’s Lola Coqueta

Usually, I have a pretty academic relationship with poetry. I’ll dabble in writing it occasionally, not because I think I’m good at it, but just because there’s a line in my head that needs to be written down to form something that isn’t quite a story.

When it comes to reading it, I’m usually easy to please. One or two poems will be enough to satisfy me, because I have a difficult time processing poems when I have to read them by the bunch.

I guess that’s why I feel like it’s such a small personal victory that I bought, finished—and loved!—Isabela Banzon’s Lola Coqueta. Granted, it’s a small volume, but hey, I’ll take what I can and savor the language while I’m at it.

A slim collection of poetry. I find that the cover design by June Poticar-Dalisay suits the content

I guess I could talk about how I went from one feeling to the next as I read through the collection of poems (and yes, those feelings include some not so positive ones), but because overall, I find that a particular number of them have become dear to me (that’s really the only way I can describe them), I’ll simply write about what I found so profound about certain pieces, and why I feel the whole works as well as it does.

On the whole, I learned to love these pieces because I was slowly but surely drawn to the concealment of meaning that the poet carefully placed between each line. I felt that whatever the meat and marrow of the poem was, it was not concealed in highfalutin terms or oblique cultural symbols, but in the spaces of everyday life.

Even more profound in its simplicity were the ability of particular poems to contain heightened meaning by placing the Filipino sensibility in the context of a foreign setting.

What’s great about it is that this setting comes across not so much as a physical location alone, but a kind of metaphysical condition—and this probably because it is also a context of a relationship:

“Rindu”*

Last night, when you were missing love
as I was,
we were lying on a huge bed, each with nobody beside.
I will slip under
your mosquito netting
and you may, if you wish,
find your way
into me.
Aku cinta padamu,
but it is morning
before I understand
what you say in the dark.

We can’t go on meeting like this,
suspended
on wire, posy
to post, through cable, under ocean,
under ground.
Fated to each other
but living without,
we rendezvous in a language not our own,
Aku ingin
mencintaimu dengan sederhana
I want
to love you simply,
without fear, without metaphor,
but it is difficult
in English.

It is difficult to imagine how we are
together,
gecko to the other in the permeable air.
You live in me,
outside me.
Kamu hidu di dalam
dan di luar diriku.
The river rushes below.
What are we in the hands of the dalang,
emotion, our puppet master,
Kita tiada sebelum kita bertemu lagi.
We are shadows in a show not of ourselves.
Who are we
that to leave you in the island of the gods
is difficult.
We do not exist,
Di bahasa Inggris, kita tiada.

The rhythm that the Bahasa language offers is familiar because so close to Filipino, but contains the same distance in meaning that I would have found in any other tongue that I don’t know. At the same time, it nudges the reader to ask, what is language for when in using it, you deny yourself true speech?

I also particularly liked the use of cultural symbolism in “At the Wake,” where knowledge of the simple mechanics behind sungka is enough to elevate the meaning of the poem:

“At the Wake”

Remember when you taught me
how to play sungka, moving the shells from
hole to hole?
Do you understand me now,
the rented flat, boarding hours,
bed space beneath the stairs?
I kept going, ran out of options
when looking for home.

At the same time, the language can become more complex when the form of the poem is changed:

“Academic Delirium”

The shining principle is to know your company.
An imaginary line joining two stars would be
pivoted around the center of their mass. It is easy
to locate them in the sinner or autumn sky. In
onset, their states of panic and terror are usually
abrupt and there nay be a misperception of
the environment. They insist they must go to
work. They make a collection of belongings and
arrange and rearrange them. This does not explain
how to deal with the inarticulate except by
continuing to talk. It includes saying, “I beg your
pardon” in full, if you had not heard clearly, and
not “Pardon” or “I’m sorry I didn’t hear” or just
plain “What?” They cannot perform simple tasks
without getting lost halfway through. The patterns
on the wall and shadows become menacing people.
Consultations are sinister plots, Disorientation
from time and place is present and severe. Then,
it all gets in a muddle and it starts all over again.

The difficulty is to know where to draw
the line between comment and fanatic bigotry.
Staunch friendships have been formed this way.
Friends are pulsating stars, heaving in and out.
Severe over-activity can be prolonged and
exhausting and could represent a considerable
hazard. When rudeness springs from a desire
to hit back because of a fancied injury, it is a sign
of a lack of poise. Collapsed stars are in an advanced
state of evolution. This is the safe and general rule.

Compared to most of the other poems in the collection, “Academic Delirium” seems like a mouthful, but there is a grace in the piecing together of utterances that molds the poem together. The language is more complex, but controlled, establishing a connection between the chaos of heavenly movement and the mess of human lives.

Through it all, and always just as subtly, the conclusions that are reached are direct and simple, as though they cannot be challenged. This might mean, perhaps, that they should be challenged all the more, but I think for someone like me (and given the relationship I have with poetry), the challenge will come in repeated readings, like the rediscovery of old friends and the familiar smell of a page already read before.

That’s a little ironic, maybe, because I feel that when you re-read something it is also because you have already loved it and continue to love it (hence the created need to re-experience it), or at least have the desire to love it (i.e., you didn’t understand it the first time, but the second third fourth nth reading of it carries you and your wanting to understand it, and this then as a form of affection).

It also means, to me, that you have achieved a kind of peace with what you’re re-reading, a certain contentment that is still open to whatever new understanding can dawn on you, and I have a suspicion that this is all the more true when it comes to something as secretly powerful as poetry.

And I guess that’s what Lola Coqueta gave me: a sense of peace in the spaces of the words heavily laden with meaning.

Whether it’s a colonial reality that’s still raw to a generation before me (“Lola Coqueta,” “In the Fifties,” or “American Dreams, 1960s”) or pieces that link more solidly the dramatic persona with the actual hand that wrote them (“Ride,” “Nineteen Years Later”), there’s a sadness that also comes along as lightness in this collection.

Perhaps this is because there is no melodrama in Ms. Banzon’s poetry—only a grim, but brave acceptance that to live is to smile, albeit a little sadly at times; to breathe easy in grief; to be happy even in nostalgia.

Words quoted from Ruben Dario, Czeslaw Milosz, and Rafael Palma before the actual poems. Grainy quality as brought to you by my camera phone

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*Translations of the terms in Bahasa can be found in the copy published by the University of the Philippines Press.

Incidentally, I haven’t sat down to do a reading (close or otherwise) of poetry in a while, so you probably shouldn’t take my words for law . Instead, buy a copy of Isabela Banzon’s Lola Coqueta and see for yourself!

And while you’re at it, read the introduction, too. For my part I skipped reading it because I didn’t want to have a preconceived notion before I wrote this entry. Happy reading!

Bona Fide, Becky-fied: The Power of Gay Speak in “Zombadings: Patayin sa Shokot si Remington”

To begin with, I want to say that I initially had very little idea what Zombadings actually is. In fact, my first encounter with it was when I saw an advertisement for it on the back of a public transportation bus. I hadn’t known then what to think of it, as even now, I choose to focus on a particular aspect of it which I think is also its most powerful, as I continue to mull over the challenges it poses not just to future portrayals of what it means to be a male, gay member of Filipino society, but also to the questions which I think it unconsciously poses to itself.

What I am more interested in discussing, however, is speech as it is articulated in Zombadings–in particular its distinction from what is otherwise deemed as the norm (“straight” Filipino, Taglish, or even English). I don’t really want to talk about the fact of deviant speech as power so much as I want to talk about why it is poweful and why it is a force to be reckoned with. In short, why the language of becky is a relevant discourse not only because it can be found in many instances of langue these days, but also because it is seen only in its humorous aspect.

The Speech, The Unstoppable

Doubtless, Zombadings was full of comic gold, but for me the real flavor of humor  was in the way the curse on Remington started to play out in the way he was speaking. I think becky speech here became humorous not simply because it sounds different from the norm, or even because the audience knows that this isn’t normally the way Remington speaks, but because it takes the form of (to use a distinctly Mean Girls term), word vomit.

The fact that Remington finds his becky speech uncontrollable is largely where the humor originates. For, if apart from speech he may get away with wearing too-tight shirts or being clean-shaven, in tandem with words like lolabells, vakler, and balur, they cast his identity in a questionable light–hence his palpable panic and the personal amusement of the audience that he blurts out such foreign-sounding words.

The Other in the Everyday

But in fact the foreign element of such speech is double-edged. For in as much as it is presented as Other (in that it necessitates subtitles), it also rings a sound of familiarity, if not in its heavy usage (“Charoterang sprikitik, umappear ka, vakler! Magpa-feel, mapga-sense, ditey sa baler!”), then because similarly-sounding words are used in the everyday, outside the walls of the cinema.

Chos, chever, charmoos, charot, mudra, madz, kainichiwa–these are all words which many of us blurt out every once in a while, Filipino man o Ingles ang ating sinimulang pangungusap (i.e., “I’m too busy for love life, eh…Chos!” or, “Kainichiwa naman, hindi pala ako makakalabas tonight!”). Sometimes (as in the case of even the dominant “straight” hifalutin words whether in Filipino or English), we resort to using these words as expressions without fully understanding their connotations in gay speak.

So why or how does gay speak then manifest itself as powerful in Zombadings? The answer lies, I think, in a very basic concept which the movie itself tackles. For precisely because it is a film which examines, in the light of humor (and therefore in a very serious and real way), the concept of [sexual] identity, then becky speech is then also posited as a very real indicator of identity. It is the idea that a shift in speech signifies a shift in something inside ourselves–although of course speech is not the sole factor of identity–which is insinuated at when Remington-speaking-becky is presented to the audience.

The System of “Becky”

For me, the more interesting aspect of the issue is anchored on the personal but also has to do with actual understanding. In the months leading up to my graduation from college, I started to notice that I was frequently using becky terms, along with blockmates and friends from other courses. It became a fun (and expected) activity to be able to use such words properly, and even more pleasurably, to understand what it was that they added to a particular sentence.

Being able too speak becky then, itself presented as an ability, became relevant and gained power because it was something to be learned, and not something which people could start saying out of the blue. Case in point, that becky speech is its own system becomes clear when Remington attempts to name the items in his household bathroom without reverting to gay speech. Here we learn, in the instance that Remington loses control of his speech that there’s a distinct way in which bathroom items can be, well, becky-fied.

At the same time, the other edge rears its head when we take into consideration that in having distinct terms for just about everything, in having its own system when it comes to usage, gay speak is also a body of language much like Filipino or English is. To be sure, this does not equate the language of becky to the level of national standing, but it does point out that the emerging manners of speaking tied with specific [sexual] identities are capable of (and I use this term in all its good, emergent sense) infecting the dominant langue, in fact even serving to spice it up, while retaining its own function of unique terms for just about anything that the dominant language also has a term for.

In Humor, In Power

Yet the language of becky is also powerful in the context within and outside of Zombadings because it points out to us that whether or not we are “gifted” with understanding when it comes to gay speak, we are able to enjoy it. Such is the realization when Eugene Domingo’s character admits that she doesn’t understand what Remington is saying, but she finds it just as amusing, with this instance of laughter even serving as a kind of link leading up to Remington becoming more endearing a character to the mother of the girl he had been trying to pursue.

Indeed, humor and the endearment of those around us who speak and understand becky are just two ways in which we ourselves begin a kind of apprenticeship in learning it. But the fact that it surpasses humor is obvious in the way its terms are used even in serious situations–as any so-called valid, dominant way of speaking is able to contain in itself the ability to express more than one aspect of human emotion.

In the end, perhaps that is what drives it. Language is, after all, nothing if not creative, and empty if incapable of relaying both emotion and information. In its ability to occupy the dominant space, offering humor and a kind of refuge for those who celebrate not being part of the norm, becky language works on the very need to be understood–and therefore, to be respected.

And it is therefore a powerful combatant in this ongoing struggle of identifying where heterosexual dominance lies unchallenged, and where homosexual existence is palpable, colorful, alive, and fantastic because it so (in)conscpicuously infects the space of the One.

So Many Gods

This is a little late, written and posted when what others might deem as the worst part of the issue has come to pass, but probably is only timely in my own regard, having attended the opening of the ManilArt Gallery 2011 just last Wednesday, August 24, and just now more than ever remembering a research paper I wrote in my freshman year at college on F. Sionil Jose.

Because even as I attended something that had its own saving grace(s), I know what discomfort lies at the heart of it. What saddens me most about the controversy surrounding Mideo Cruz’s Polyteismo revolves around two things: denial and refusal. When I say denial, I mean the Catholic-related denial of the fact that what we see in the display of Polyteismo is but the putting-into-art of everyday Filipino life. If we should be offended by the coexistence of Christ’s face with a penis in close quarters, then we might as well be offended by split level Christianity that Fr. Jaime S. Bulatao, S.J. himself pointed out.

If people can spend so much time insisting that the CCP shouldn’t have wasted its space and money in displaying such blasphemous artwork, then surely we can also banish all the vendors around Quiapo Church in a reenactment of Christ’s rage against the money-changers outside the temple.

Then we should be able to sweep off every single child begging for themselves (or for syndicates, who can tell?) outside the churches and chapels and restaurants and hospitals alike. Then we should be able to give justice to what is termed “the single deadliest event for journalists in history”. Then we should be able to remember what August 25 meant just a year ago.

The refusal, on the other hand, we can find in such strong insistence that people shouldn’t be allowed to think for themselves. I agree wholeheartedly that art can be offensive. And I can’t deny that the people who can and will feel offended are not faceless characters but are rather tangibly the people around me. What I dislike so much, however, is the insistence that critical thinking isn’t needed in the situation. Let’s put it this way. All right, Chist + penis = offense; is tantamount to bad art. Or perhaps isn’t really art at all.

But why? Why is it bad art? Why isn’t it art at all? What is art? Not only in the sense of the word that makes people think of the Greeks or the Renaissance artists but art in the sense of Filipino culture and history?

And to be specific, what does the penis mean? Mr. Cruz himself gives that answer, but I cannot believe that it has never entered the minds of people like Imelda Marcos that the phallus is a symbol of power. That we even consider the opinions of Imelda Marcos on art and even more sadly, on art in relation to faith, is so unthinkable, the fact that it happens speaks volumes. 

Even the Church, I choose to believe, isn’t naive to the concept of phallic power, because no matter what anyone says, no one becomes ordained without years of study, and not just in the religious field, either. But this is a society that is extremely pararanoid when it comes to sex, and extremely synthetic instead of analytic, so much so that every mention of sex is now suddenly supportive of the RH Bill. This in the light of Kapamilya shows like Alyna, Katorse, and more recently, Reputasyon, that so very few complained about, even with their premises of virgin-as-sex-object. It’s criticism that’s so selective, it’s either it isn’t criticism at all, or that it isn’t faith at all. Perhaps both.

Because honestly, perhaps it was inevitable that the Church was going to step in and rage against Mr. Cruz. Perhaps it was inevitable that the government would only pay so much heightened attention to the arts in a case like this (passive-aggressive as it always has been when it comes to the humanities). I hate that people have questioned what little Mr. Cruz himself has consented to offer as answers (taking to mind that Polyteismo is itself an answer or a response to daily Filipino faith) when they themselves have failed to question, well, their own causes for their questions.

After all, isn’t it worth asking the President of the Philippines what he means when he says that “When you stoke conflict that is not an ennobling activity”? 

If this is so, what did Ninoy Aquino do then, when he challenged a dictator? Was that not “stoking conflict”?

But of course challenging dictatorship and putting up a so-called subversive piece of art are not the same thing. What I do think is so dangerous about the President’s statement is the implication that you can allow for a certain amount of freedom and then expect that there won’t be any conflict. When you give people even the smallest amount of freedom, conflict is inevitable, and that is as it should be. And if and when you declare that someone has crossed the lines, then you must first ask yourself what those lines are, and most importantly: who drew those lines? What is the intention of such lines?

I am not here arguing that the lines should be erased. I am here pointing out how ridiculous the counter-arguments have been against the CCP. I am here arguing how disgracefully our media have handled the situation.

And I am here showing how disappointed I am at how little people can back up their so-called reasons for putting Mr. Cruz down.

Case in point, I don’t understand at all what F. Sionil Jose was trying to say when he wrote against Mr. Cruz. I do not understand whether he was vainly attempting to reassert himself in the discourse of local art (and thus coming off as defensive instead of reasonable), or just griping that in his old age, he doesn’t understand what all these young people are calling art these days.

In any case, he fails miserably because of an x number of false assumptions on which his response is based. What was the use of claiming that had he been in the CCP’s shoes, he would have done otherwise? What was the use of pointing out that he was behind the operations of one of the earliest art galleries in Manila? A person who has the curriculum vitae to back up his arguments, precisely because he has this CV, doesn’t need to go through every accomplishment.

And that person certainly gains nothing in pointing out the people he knows in the industry, just as he gains no more respect in naming “the masters we studied in school, the sculptors of ancient Greece and Rome, the classical writers as well, Homer, Cervantes all of them” when he speaks of so local and particularly historical an event in art, faith, and politics.

Perhaps I should just admit that I’m disappointed on a personal scale because I expected a renowned Filipino writer who is absolutely insistent on a kind of literature that is socially active and relevant to be more critical of the progression of art in the country. You know what, I am not even averse to the possibility that maybe, just maybe Mr. Jose has a point. Maybe in light of other art works, Mr. Cruz’s collage pales in comparison and becomes nothing.

But how do you treat an essay that starts with, “The artist who set up that controversial Jesus Christ exhibit at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) the other week must be grinning and enjoying all that brouhaha that has made him the central object of attention in the last few days” when the artist in question, the same one Mr. Jose implies to be petty, was awarded the CCP 13 Artists Award in 2003 and the Ateneo Art Awards in 2007? I don’t mean to say that we should all bow down to Mr. Cruz because of his accomplishments or renown. But I do mean to say that a condescending tone that implies no prior investigation of what you’re up against shows you to be a poor critic. And on top of that, a sourgrape that accomplishes nothing.

Can you treat an article that works on such premises seriously?

In the end, there’s a part of me that is glad that art can still spark people into debate. But when I speak of “debate” I do not mean disrespect,   nor a looking back at what the Western world has so far deemed as art. I do not mean the un-classy use of a writer’s excrement to prove a point, and nor do I mean the reminder of how stifling the Catholic faith can become in my country nor the event of media sensationalism.

But that’s exactly what happened here. And that’s what really devastates me. Because I love my country, and I love art, but I just don’t see the two together without conflict any time soon.

Or is that a good thing, now?

Installed on a Dream

When I was a little girl, I often dreamed of going to art galleries. And while I still have that dream, I now know that as in a lot of things, visiting an art gallery, or an amalgamation of it, isn’t as fantastic as you dream it up to be.

The truth is that if you’re going to an opening, particularly of the ManilArt Gallery, then you should probably come early. This gives you just enough time to view the different paintings, installation art, and sculptures before there’s a program to want to see at the same time. If you can, it would also be nice to view these things alone, because it gives you time to think about why you think the way you do about a piece of art. Of course, it’s nice to gush over or cringe at something with a friend, but it’s sometimes more gratifying to find out why you (dis)like something when you’re on your own.

Another truth is that your feet will hurt by the time you finish going around to see what’s on display. You will also probably be too afraid of the cold to take off your jacket, because the gallery is much too cold for comfort. And if you do decide to take your jacket off, it will be much later, when there are more people to huddle in the cold with and your body is busy keeping you warm because it’s digesting.

Speaking of food, it’s also something to keep in mind that you aren’t there to eat. Well, all right, you are, but expect that the pasta, in its little bowl and makeshift, two-pronged wooden fork will be a challenge to eat, the line for the cold cuts and the bread quite long, and the bubbly not as tempting as it is to think that you’re at a posh event drinking alcohol while looking at some art.

The irony that hangs over such an event is also very palpable. I guess it’s less than ideal to attend the opening of the ManilArt Gallery 2011 when the thought of Polyteismo is such an insistent whisper that it’s almost deafening. It’s also ironic in light of the fact that there’s a painting of a Christ-like figure lying down, white strings of web emanating from the white of its loincloth, like so many children waiting to be born. Or, as is pointed out to you, that there’s a set of installation art that reinterprets the Santo Nino, its body bulb-like bubbles with colorful things inside. So you begin to wonder if the CBCP should be marching in at any second–and if they don’t, you get the inevitable feeling that such selective attention to the arts is also a result of selective faith, and thus, isn’t really faith at all.

So what saves an event like this?

Let the cliches begin–it’s the people you’re with, who know better than to say something is nice or isn’t. It’s the knowledge that although there are cracks on the surface of a seemingly perfect event, some of those cracks are genius, and that what the hegemony doesn’t care to know is this–that there are threads that connect exhibits like Kulo to the much more “appreciated/accepted” gathering of art in the ManilArt Gallery; that when you include a collaborative work by Elmer Borlongan and Vim Nadera which is as much about technology and the past as much as it is about recreating the now-so-foreign-yet-accepted-as-norm alphabet we learn from birth, there’s no point in believing that a single work of art is clearly blasphemous and clearly should be banned while there are others that people can enjoy over at the NBC Tent because it is peppered with celebrities, gorgeous Filipinana attire, and the presence of F. Sionil Jose.

What saves an event like this can be as simple as the goosebumps I felt when I read the explanation to Ms. Plet Bolipata’s cello-shaped Sweet Daddy Sweet, the same accompanied with the words Sleep Daddy Sleep. In short, what makes something like this worth it is the possibility of finding something you feel strongly about, expressed in visuals you yourself could not have produced and in movements your body could not have otherwise followed but for the ability of your eyes to look and see:

Myra Beltran and Batang Edsa, “the face” of this year’s ManilArt Gallery

Letter T from Vim Nadera’s Rizalpabeto: Teodora

My favorite out of the samples of Rizalpabeto: K is for Katipunan. And that just might have been Elmer Borlongan’s shadow.

If you want to know what all the fuss is about, here’s a video to help you out:

Here are just some of the other art pieces I enjoyed which I managed to take a picture of with my equally less-than-ideal camera phone:

Untitled by Soler

Moved by the Wind by Ferdinand Cacnio. I am crazy about this sculptor. Don’t think you’ve seen his work before? If you’ve been to Bonifacio Global City and seen the sculpture of two fishermen holding a net full of fish between them while looking at the sky, then you’ve seen his piece, Pasasalamat.

Balloon Vendor by Michael Cacnio

Blowing Plastic by Michael Cacnio

A painting I love by Zean Cabangis, the title of which I didn’t catch because it was lacking a card plate

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So you see, it’s the knowing and discomfort that counts, too. It’s the same that takes away the glamour of girlish dreams, but it’s also the same that heightens your personal appreciation for the select pieces that you like, instead of taking an event as a whole and not seeing it in light of the bigger picture that’s a country where people can’t decide what to do with its art(ists).

My stack from ManilArt 2011: brochures from some of the galleries that participated and a signed copy of Eline Santos’ Doll Eyes

Sometimes things become not more or less enjoyable, but enjoyable differently, because you see them with new eyes. It’s not as perfect as your girlhood dreams, but it’s probably more worth it. And even a fantasist like me can figure that out.

Here, Have Some French

Let’s get it out there that first and foremost, I’m a meat eater. I may cut down on it, and I may veer away from eating the fat in pork, but generally, I like meat and unless I don’t like the recipe, I’ll at least try it. Naturally, I was psyched when I found out that an office appointment would take me to L’entrecote Manila at the Fort.

This time, this isn’t so much a review of a very Class A restaurant as it is of what it means to be “fine dining”, of the implications of that ideal, and my own thoughts when I reflect on what I feel when I’m fine dining. This is also, in all sorts of ways, a derivative review in that as someone still exploring culinary reviews and recalling a meal that happened weeks ago, I also refer to much more knowledgeable sources that I of course credit all throughout.

The L’entrecote menu is necessarily limited, which I think is a good thing. Not a lot of us know about authentic French dining in any case, so it’s nice not to be bombarded with a lot of choices. Basically, as Anton Diaz of Our Awesome Planet notes, there are only three meal variations: the L’entrecote, Geneva, and Vegetarian Option.

L’entrecote includes the sirloin steak in what they call the “Secret Herb Butter Sauce”, frites (in other words, French fries), and salad. The Geneva is basically the same, only it includes dessert and wine. If you order the L’entrecote option, you’ll have to order those two separately. The Vegetarian includes the same tossed sala, grapes, and different kinds of cheese.

Anyway, we ordered the L’entrecote, but I declined from getting any wine. I ordered my steak medium rare. I don’t, usually, but aspiring-what-have-you that I am, I decided I liked the sound of “medium rare” that night. More importantly, my mom usually cooks our steaks well-done, and this time I wanted something well, different.

Conveniently enough, they give you a separate hot plate aside from the plate that has your steak and frites. The fries, by the way, were interesting, and I promise to mean that in the sincerest way possible. They’re definitely a relief from the usual fast food fries, but they weren’t very crispy. Also, I think I was just expecting thicker slices, to really emphasize that they were serving quality, real potato fries. Still, they weren’t bad at all, and the fact that they were unlimited made it more interesting. By the way, the steak and frites are set down on a small grill, underneath which there is a small lighted candle to keep the meat warm. It’s really quite well-thought out.

This is something I can also say of the bread (which Mr. Diaz is kind enough to point out is Bistole), served with a small packet of butter. As JJ Yulo of Spot.ph points out, it’s an appetizer. The skeptic in you may believe that bread is a little too heavy for a starter, but really, it’s not. If there’s one thing about it that stayed with me, it’s that it was light enough to whet my appetite, but not too satisfying. I just wish it could have been a little warmer.

I wasn’t too fond of the salad that came after, but I suppose you could say it was very good in serving the same purpose as the bread.

Since it’s fine dining, your server is also guaranteed to stay by the side of your table all throughout, which saves you from the usual trouble of having to raise your hand for someone to wait on you. The only downside is that there was a confusion with my table’s orders. Let that be advice for you guys in case you want to try out this restaurant. It’s best to enunciate how you want your steaks, because there can be a lot of confusion between “medium rare” and “medium well”, and the delay due to the confusion won’t be worth a grumbling tummy while everyone else at your table is already eating.

As for dessert, I remember getting the Raspberry Walnut Iced Vacherin cake, the Baked Alaska, and the Crepe Suzette with Vanilla Ice Cream. I thought the Vacherin was lacking in flavor, and I was a little disappointed at the Crepe Suzette because, in contrast, it was much too strong and I didn’t find that the ice cream could properly balance the sourness of the flavor.

The Baked Alaska did not disappoint, however, even if it got a little too toasted (it’s a flamed dessert). The cream and fruit inside were sweet and soft on the tongue.

As you should be able to tell by now, this post could do with a lot more pictures (which is why I recommend heading over to the gallery at Spot.ph). I’d love to show you how the interior looked, especially as it had an obvious effect on our dining experience, which is that it made it a little uncomfortable. Upon asking the staff which table would be the best to dine at (we were a group of six), we were advised to sit at the far end opposite the entrance, on a table surrounded on three sides by a wall. The only up-side was that most of us got to sit on the booth seats that ran along the table. Other than that though, it was terribly inconvenient to stand up to go to the restroom and come back to sit down as it inconvenienced the rest of the group.

I guess you can tell by now that I didn’t have that grand a time. And while I could say this was the fault of L’entrecote, I’d be very inaccurate. I suppose what made me uncomfortable was not so much the fact that I didn’t like the food as much as I expected to, but that I felt more like I was paying much, much less for the food. Of course, I’m not naive enough to posit that when you pay for fine dining, you only pay for the food. In such cases, you’re obviously paying for the venue, ambience, and all that jazz.

In any case, any dining experience also has to do with company. I had wondered if perhaps the experience could have been better had I eaten there with my childhood friends, but the answer still seems to be no. At the same time, I know that I’m not averse to fine dining because I’ve had it before and will likely have it again.

I think, perhaps, it’s the expectations that lead to the downfall. We pay so much for something and we forget that ironically, these are the times when naivete could actually do us some good: to simply receive things as they come (so much the harder when we know just how much we’re paying). Perhaps it’s the necessary consequence of expensive meals that sometimes, we taste the money rather than the meat, and it just isn’t as delicious as we want it to be.

At the same time, I wonder how strange it is, to pursue the authentic dining experience of another culture in your own country. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here parading some shallow sense of nationalism.

What I mean to say is that I think I’m at the age where I know that anything that’s from another culture, once brought to our own, no matter how originally “authentic”, doesn’t really stay that way. We taste it with our tongues. We touch it with our hands. We listen to it with our ears. I don’t think we can ever really experience an Other while becoming its One, because that makes our lives so much less. Adding our own flavor to something–even when we decide, afterwards, that we didn’t exactly love it (eating in a posh French cuisine-inspired restaurant, for instance)–is not something we can help, and call me idealistic, call me stupid, but I think that’s what makes these things precious enough for thought. And for words.

That being said, I think that if you do have the budget for it, you should go out and try L’entrecote, if only because you’re culturally curious and a trip to Burgos Circle is much more delectable for your wallet than a trip to France.

And don’t mind my seeming lack in diligence in taking photographs for this one post. This blog isn’t a passing whim, but I’m still doing my best in instilling more discipline. In the meantime, dream up banquets of food, even–and especially–when you can’t afford them. When you can, though, find the best people to share them with, and if the food should disappoint, I hope the company will not.

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If you’d like to read other (real) reviews of L’entrecote, you can try tablesforcouple’s take on it as well as that of Manila Boy’s.

L’entrecote Manila is at Unit A, Bellagio 2, Burgos Circle, Forbestown, Bonifacio Global City. You can contact them at (632) 856-4858. They’re open everyday from 11 AM to 2:30 PM and again from 6 PM to 11 PM.