Art Fair PH 2023, A Meditation on Patience (and the pieces I couldn’t miss)
With a meditation on patience, crafted by a day of weaving among people and their extended arms, I managed to pin down pieces and collections which, in their being tools, created spaces for me to inhabit and enjoy–albeit with the occasional bump and “excuse me”.
Text and images by Jaymes Shrimski
February 27, 2023
As I entered the redone multi-level parking lot housing Art Fair Philippines 2023, I hosted the same hodgepodge of questions and yearnings I feel before a movie starts or upon attending any art show. I sought representation, mostly for emotions and feelings I fail to pin names on; I sought tools, to craft short helpful moments; and I sought hope.
Taking it from Alain de Botton and John Amstrong in their co-authored Art as Therapy: “Today’s problems are rarely created by people taking too sunny a view of things; it is because the troubles of the world are so continually brought to our attention that we need tools that can preserve our hopeful dispositions.”
Just as I consume movies seeking a tool for thrill or wonder or heat in my chest resembling that which love generates, I entered the art fair seeking an escape from the grey of the daily–of to-do lists, computer screens, and doom scrolls–in search of tools to confront feelings I hadn’t labelled, to experience moments of awe my phone isn’t manufactured to provide me with, and to somehow walk away better–if not more hopeful, at least more self-aware.
With a meditation on patience, crafted by a day of weaving among people and their extended arms, I managed to pin down pieces and collections which, in their being tools, created spaces for me to inhabit and enjoy–albeit with the occasional bump and “excuse me”.
Where I rediscovered awe
That is, the same sense of amazement which has become rarer and rarer with each passing year from my tenth birthday.
Izumi Akiyama (b. 1982)
Still Life X, 2021, Pencil on paper
When had I last experienced a room stripped of complexity? When, living in a city like Metro Manila, had I last experienced quiet at a table? Or gentle light? This piece, without a narrative or colour, manages to use shades rather than outlines to faithfully capture glass and porcelain vessels spread on a surface at varying distances. The objects are neither organised equidistantly nor chucked around the place ala-my-desk-at-home (which is charming, or so I try to convince myself). Akiyama created harmony, free of lines and forced delineations between the space and the vessels, and summoned a still life of calmness–made all the more awe-inspiring by the difficulty of the piece.
Norman Dreo (b. 1970)
Sagrado, Mixed media
When you’re stumped in front of a retablo, there’s a high chance you’re stumped in a venerative mood. After all, you’re probably cast in the long shadow of a wall with saints on it. For this piece, however, the wall is host to panels containing some of the Philippine’s earliest documented artists and art forms. Employing trompe-l'œil to create an optical illusion suggesting that the flat work is multi-dimensional, Dreo creates panels containing a trace through history of documented Filipino artists–from the Angono petroglyphs at the very top of the work through to artists from the 1900’s. Appearing in front of the artists, we find people–some of whom are in a venerative mood while others are just passing by–light posts, banderitas, and electrical wires. The piece is joined by a neat legend and introduction to each artist in the work, and the whole experience seems to poke fingers at how the country’s rich art history deserves a place in our day-to-day too, the same day-to-day containing passersby, light posts, and electrical wires.
Kenji Sugiyama (b. 1962)
The Third Eye no. 2 and The Third Eye no. 5
Mirror, paper, glass, spherical object
I couldn’t decide whether to type “I contain multitudes” or “don’t judge a book by its cover,” so I’m just going to document the struggle. In any case, the 3-inch in diameter spheres are so unassuming, sat on a shelf with a little piece of metal holding them upright. Peering through their pupils though, with the aid of a magnifying glass, reveals the whole world which Sugiyama creates with paper. Galleries, and nods to previous work, whole scenes in (Antman fans will love this) the seemingly quantum realm, beg the question of how Sugiyama puts this together. Does he shrink himself down ala Ant-man? And, where do the scenes of our lives exist anyway? Are they in our minds? Our eyes?
Pieces that made me laugh, or at least had me feeling light
…And yes, this experience was aided by Proclamation Gin’s Binibini G&T with dried mango, burnt bayleaf, and sampaguita oil.
Rina Yokouchi (b. 1993)
Girl in the Forest, 2023
Oil and mixed media on canvas
This was a delightfully petite piece to walk by at only 18 by 14 centimetres in size. Viewing it was like catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye, then upon focusing your gaze on the object, realising that you were seeing someone else. The way the figure peeks from behind the curved tree strikes as though the figure is catching a peek of you too. My take: playfully. Almost adorably. The forest is suddenly accessible and fun–not just a large area of trees and undergrowth, but a living playground.
Kirby Roxas (b. 1977)
The Tenants, 2023, Acrylic on Canvas on Wood on Canvas
The Tenants changed as I walked by it. Each window on the piece opens to a scene–all of which rest on an open field which slowly yellows upwards into a blue sky. Viewing the piece from the centre, each scene looks as though it’s partitioned by white lines, but by walking to either side of the painting, I realised Roxas created two images in each window. The largest of the windows seems to capture a man in a crowd (very familiar to me at the time), but as I walked to the right of the painting, the man is suddenly alone surrounded in white–funnily, as I paced to the right, I felt myself slip away from everyone in the room too.
The work of Syahbandhi Samat (b. 1992)
Self-realisation: I have a dark sense of humour. Somehow, pain can be funny; it was a physical therapist who once told me, “it’s weird that you laugh at pain,” as they dug their elbow into my leg. And I sense that Samat has a sense of humour coloured a similar shade, presenting works of candy and ice-pops–i.e. sweet things which melt upon contact–coating razors and knives. The red lollipop is titled It’s Best To Know When To Stop ll (Life Ain’t That Sweet), and poses a question that may be painful to answer: can you have too much of a good thing?
Genavee Lazaro (b. 1994)
Testing the Waters, As We Should, 2023
Now here’s a familiar scene: a cluttered spread of everyday products accented by a book, a pair of glasses, and sunblock–and an attempt at taking care of a plant. The everyday scene is transported into make-believe with the tiniest accent I almost missed. There are tiny cactus-people on the stem of the greenery at the centre of the image. While one of the characters sunbathes near the top of the stem, the other looks as though it's either posing for the viewer or waiting for the sunbather to finish–cheeky either way. The small scene led me to wonder if my spread of everyday things at home housed magical worlds I haven’t exercised the patience to notice.
Worlds to lose yourself in
I found myself empathising with the characters in these works. With regular people surrounded by hundreds of goats, to waiters opening wine bottles.
Shiori Saito (b. 1992)
Waiter to be Chased, 2022, Oil on canvas
The work exists in a time we can imagine. A figure steps outdoors as the sun goes down, wine bottle in hand, and tries to unscrew it under the light of a streetlamp. The figure wears a dress and appears to be donning a facemask too. The dark shades in the scene highlight the solitary effort of the character–perhaps similar to the sudden solitariness of our efforts when the world was plunged into lockdown. I wonder what sort of dinner party the figure was headed back to.
The work of Kakinuma Hiroki (b. 1985)
What crazy things do you see and live with without absorbing? Hiroki paints worlds where recognizably regular people live in cramped living spaces, adjacent to which something profound is taking place. In one such world, humongous eagles nest atop apartments–where people are just going about their home lives unbothered. I mean, if it were me and a godzilla bird were living a couple floors above me, I’d be a tad concerned. But that being said, our lives do contain contradictions and the seemingly impossible at times, and the best we can do is try to hold it all together. It’s a “mysterious harmony”.
Work that made me uncomfortable
Or spooled together emotions I’d repressed due to shame or insecurity.
Komamine Chihiro (b. 1993)
Shape of Men No. 2, 2022
This little pudgy thing might just be a depiction of a human being–created by a mangled up, roughly sewn together Winnie the Pooh. This Winnie is discoloured, miles away from its usual bright yellow–settling instead for a coffee-stained tan. It’s missing an eye, has its ear sewn into its cheek, and yet still smiles with an arm extended while its leg appears sewn on the wrong way. How far away am I–are we–from our best selves? Miles away too?
The work of Kapitan Kulam
I was amazed to learn that this was the work of a “quartet synthesizing elements of sludge metal, and experimental noise,” and was caught off-guard by the casual violence of the pen-drawn pieces. There were so many of them too. And though I recognized the frustrations captured in their darkly penned lines, and saw the humour in their depictions too–the same humour I use to try and brush these frustrations away–I felt a sense of release in this work. Perhaps letting go of the roughness I’d be wise to keep to myself.
The work of Yeo Kaa (b.1989)
On her style of work, Yeo Kaa writes, “I mix my candy-flavored palette and doll-life figuration with dark and disturbing imagery of violence, infliction of pain, and body mutilations, among others, to shock and evoke discomfort to some, while easing the sensitivity of confronting real-life horrors to others.” While a huge piece of Yeo Kaa’s work was on display on the roofdeck of the fair–a large chrome figure, arms raised as if to fight or as though the figure had just succeeded, surrounded by equidistant figure heads coloured with bright sprays of pink, purple, and yellow paint–I’m struck most by two child-like figures on one of the lower floors. They stand, child-sized, each with a bomb in arm. One is blood-stained. On the back of its head, as if smudged with a finger: “WAR SUCKS”. Are these little figures mushroom clouds?
“I don’t understand”
And the point probably wasn’t to understand anything. These were the pieces I stood in front of, trying to make sense of why I liked them so much.
Dennis Capellan (b. 1970)
I See What You’re Playing, 2023, Pen and Ink on Paper
Was I looking at the muddled memory of a stern father-figure, watchful of his child’s every move? Was he looking at me? This finely detailed piece, done in pen, created an optical illusion–of a room that morphs into a house and back again. Perhaps this imagery conveys a suffocating lack of privacy. An ever-watchfulness that leaves the house devoid of any rooms whatsoever–a 1984-style of homelife. Maybe this piece belongs in the previous section.
The work of Yunizar (b. 1971)
Entering the last section–on the roof of the art fair–I entered a room of rich reds, thick outlines, and childlike whimsy. I’d spend slow minutes studying the letters and doing the math on Yunizar’s Coretan work, Coretan being the artist’s “unreadable letters” series. And so, of course, as the minutes passed, I got no closer to solving any riddle–much less doing anything mathematical. But it wasn’t an ill-spent endeavour. The time spent going through the work from the top-left of it to the bottom-right felt as though I were browsing a miniature gallery of figurines, rhythmic scribbles, and mythical symbolism.
The work of Yunizar (b. 1971)
My day spent at Art Fair Philippines 2023 draws a few parallels with my experience viewing Yunizar’s work. For one, it was busy. Secondly, there was a lot I didn’t understand. The day required a great deal of patience–in getting around the large venue and in taking the time to really stop and give the work attention. But undergirding all of these parallels, there is a childlike playfulness, an invitation into bright colour. It’s neither smug nor unwelcoming. It promises that if you give it the attention it deserves, you might just learn something, change your mood, make yourself uncomfortable, confuse yourself, enchant yourself. And these things take time.
That was the day’s meditation on patience.
