An Magayon Na Tibaad Mangyari Satong Duwa Susog Sa Librong Binabasa Ko Dies Minutos Bago Ako Magsaka Sa Bus Pauling Naga Tanganing Mahiling Ta Ka Giraray

Namomotan ta ka. Anong buot silingon sini? Ma’wot kong buhay ka para sakuya sagkod ma’wot kong buhay ka para sa sadiri mo. Ma’wot  kong buhay ka. Ma’wot kong yaon buhay ka susog sa paging ma’wot mo. Ma’wot kong yaon ka na mayong nag-uulang saimo.

Mantang ibinibiklad mo sako an sadiri mo, sa tubang ko, minayaman an buhay ko. Nagiging mas buhay ako. Namamatian ko an sadiri ko na yaon sa mga bulutangon na pinapapangyari mo; nagkakaigwa nin saysay kag kahulugan an buhay ko.

Saro kang palaisipan na ma’wot kong maliwanagan. Alagad dai ta ka mapagibo nin ano pa man. Maaagda ko sana man asin mabibiklad mo sako an palaisipan ini. Ma’wot kong mamidbidan ta ka, namomo’tan ko. Ta nganing mamidbidan ta ka, kaipuhan mong magpahiling. Magpamate. Magparamdam.

Ta nganing mabiklad mo sako an palaisipan na, kaipuhan na magtiwala ka sako na igagalang ko ‘ni, o an mga ini. O maoogma ako sa mga ini. Magin ini amo an pagdata kan hawak mo sa lawas ko, bagay na dai ko pwedeng masabutan kun dae pa nangyayari. Magin ini iyo man an saimong ginapanumdom, iniimahenar, pinagpaplano, o namamati.

Ngaa mapamidbid ka kan sadiri mo sako kun dai ko man muya, okun ma’wot ko sana man gamiton ta ka sa mga obhetong dai ko ginasiling saimo? Mamimidbidan mo ko, an nagahambal na namomoot saimo.

Kun mimidbidon mo ko, kaipuhan kong magpabisto. Kaipuhan ipabisto ko saimo an sadiri ko, an pagkatawo ko, sa pakikipag-ulay, ta nganing magkamidbidan kitang dungan. Mantang pinapabisto mo sako an pagkatawo mo, nagkakaigwa ako nin ideya manongod saimo, na pag-uban-uban maagi sana, huli ta sa amo nga tiempo, daw naga-ilis ka na. Kun makikipag-ulay giraray ako saimo, an nagligad nga ideya ko bako nang matuod, kaya kaipuhan ko na ataduhon giraray idto, dangan pauro-utro.

Kun ika nagatalubo, na mayo nin ano man na kaulangan o nag-uulang saimo, makikibot na sana ako. Paparibongon mo an ulo ko, dangan baad mayad man sako.

Kun namomotan man nanggad ta ka, namomotan ko an mga ginigibo mo, huli ta sinda gikan saimo. Pwede man na tabangan ta ka kun muya mo. O pabayaan ta kang gibuhon mo sana ni nin solo, kun ini makahulugan saimo. Igagalang ko an mga kama’wotan mo sa mga butang na amo ni.

Kun namomo’tan ko an sadiri ko, namomo’tan ko an mga gibo ko, huli ta sinda buhay ko. Kun namomo’tan mo ko, tugot ka sa mga ginaobra ko; tinatabangan mo kong maobra sinda, dawa an boot silingon sini ako sana an magibo. Kun gibohon mo na pugulan mo ko, dai ka namomoot sako. Kun pugulan ta ka, dai ko namomoot saimo. Mayo nin kaipuhan mag-ulang saimo, sagkod tinataw’an ko nin saysay an saimong libertad. Mayo man nin mag-uulang sako, asin tinataw’an ko nin saysay an sadiri kong libertad.

Ako sarong lawas. Ako yaon sa lawas. Siring man ika. Ma’wot kong yaon ako, igwang lawas. Muya ko an lawas mo, an pagigi mong lawas. Kun dai ko muya an atado mo, o pagkaatado mo, hahambalan ta ka. Ta an pagkamoot niyato, katotoohan.

Saro akong sexual na linalang. Siring man ika. Kitang duwa naobra nin sarong bagay na masiram, magayon kag marhay para sa aton nga duwa. Inaagda mo kong mamidbid ta ka sa paagi kan lawas ko; inaagda ta kang mamidbidan mo ko sa paagi kan lawas ko. Sama’ kita sa masisiram kag manana’gum na puwedeng tang ipapangyari, sa kasiraman, sa kana’guman.

Kun muya mo ko tapos dai ta ka gusto, dai ko pwedeng magbalu’bagi. Nagsasabi sana kan totoo an lawas ko. Dai ta ka makukua kun dai mo itatao sako an sadiri mo. Dai man puwedeng maghambog an lawas mo.

Kun mahihiling dangan madadangog ta ka, orog na mamimidbidan ta ka kaysa kun mahihiling ta ka sana. Alagad kun kaputan ta ka, parungon ta ka, namitan ta ka, mas orog ta kang mamimidbid. Alagad dai ka matugot na gibohon yan saimo kun mayo kang tiwala sako, kun habo mong mabisto ta ka man nanggad.

Susog sa Transparent Self. Ni Sidney M. Jourard. New York, 1971, 52–53.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

Silingon, sabihon

Sini, kaini

Kag, sagkod, asin

Amo, iyo

Ginapanumdom, iniisip

Ngaa, ta’no, nata’

Okun, o

Ginasiling, sinasabi

Daw, garo

Naga-ilis, minahira, minasangli

Nagahambal, nagsasabi

Sa amo nga tiempo, sa oras na’yan,

Nagligad, nakaagi

Nga, na

Matuod, tama, sakto

Makikibot, mabibigla

Ulo, payo

Mayad, marhay

Butang, bagay

Hahambalan, sasabihan

Naobra, (mi)nagibo

Aton, satuya

Copyright 1998–2011

The Writer Walks to the Podium, And

Today, the writer will (speak about an) elevate (d piece of) himself.  In various other ways he has long tried to do this—talking to himself, discussing with teachers, conversing with friends, or grandstanding.

In the past, he has written letters to friends, brothers and sisters, teachers, classmates, and those people whom he knows and who knows him.  These people are not more than 20 individuals who are either simply familiar (just because he knows their names and faces) or really familiar (because they know him and he knows them better than other people).

The pieces he has written may have either been poetry, or essays mostly authored in first person. Some of them even have included artworks, sketches, variations of famous lyric poetry, short quotes, and even his own verse (which he would rewrite now and then until he feels they are poetry enough).

Most of the time, he insists to give them to these persons because he feels constantly driven to do so. Through a certain poem, essay or excerpt, he conveys aspects of himself. 

In fact, these people would thank him for the effort. They would thank him for the odd opportunity of being written for unexpectedly, but also for the rare chance of receiving a poem for a gift. That something is written for them by him simply surprises or especially flatters them. Some would utterly thank him for the poetry enclosed. While others would relate to him how an artwork made them ponder for a while.

Through such pieces, he honestly conveys himself to them. Through them, he believes he shares his soul, because in these poems and essays, he discloses his thoughts, he articulates his emotion. In all these, he lays bare his sobriety.

On the part of those who receive his “gifts,” they would feel elated and grateful because somebody thinks of them, or because in a way or a hundred others, somebody, to the very least, regards them. On his part, this entails one true thing for which he ought to be thankful himself—his aching desire to draw an idea or enunciate each emotion, spontaneous or contrived, good or otherwise, in fine and creative written form. All this special time he has come to realize that two things in his poems and works are unmistakably consistent, or persistent: pain and glory, or worded otherwise, agony and ecstasy.

These extremes, expressions in themselves, have always been apparent in his metaphors or insinuated in his narration. Though these pieces which he has enjoyed putting on paper do not necessarily conform to the numerous literary standards or rules on style of his day, they have to make sense for perhaps they have been spontaneously written—but always to manifest an undisguised spirit born to pain and redeemed by ecstasy, speaking truth and nothing less.

His poetry, for instance, contains tension, some conflict fragmented either in details or in mixed metaphors. Though one particular poem written out of angst appears to have a forced ending, the person to whom he has given the work would tell him that someone who writes these lines, or even just comes to think about it is one tormented spirit—“a grim soul,” in fact.


A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.

At times, because he spontaneously writes these poems and essays, he also makes it a point to revise them before he finally gives them to persons whom he knows and who can relate to them. Revising these unsolicited pieces enables him to be more insightful about every thought, emotion or experience therein. Because spontaneity and therefore truths among these pieces may be sacrificed or unfortunately wasted if he revises his works, he is better convinced that the unrevised ones tell the best thing in this conscious endeavor. 

Every unedited or unpolished piece contains the grim provocation, the raw emotion, the stolid person. Yet, along with the ill forms and sad projections is his heart for the good—the highest hope, the unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness in all things, a constant, optimistic disposition that will banish all the afflictions rendered by reality.

The Writer Walks to the Podium, and Then

Today, the writer will (speak about an) elevate (d piece of) himself.  In various other ways he has long tried to do this—talking to himself, discussing with teachers, conversing with friends, or grandstanding.

In the past, he has written letters to friends, brothers and sisters, teachers, classmates, and those people whom he knows and who knows him.  These people are not more than 20 individuals who are either simply familiar (just because he knows their names and faces) or really familiar (because they know him and he knows them better than other people).

The pieces he has written may have either been poetry, or essays mostly authored in first person. Some of them even have included artworks, sketches, variations of famous lyric poetry, short quotes, and even his own verse (which he would rewrite now and then until he feels they are poetry enough).

Most of the time, he insists to give them to these persons because he feels constantly driven to do so. Through a certain poem, essay or excerpt, he conveys aspects of himself.

In fact, these people would thank him for the effort. They would thank him for the odd opportunity of being written for unexpectedly, but also for the rare chance of receiving a poem for a gift.

That something is written for them by him simply surprises or especially flatters them. Some would utterly thank him for the poetry enclosed. While others would relate to him how an artwork made them ponder for a while.

Through such pieces, he honestly conveys himself to them. Through them, he believes he shares his soul, because in these poems and essays, he discloses his thoughts, he articulates his emotion. In all these, he lays bare his sobriety.

On the part of those who receive his “gifts,” they would feel elated and grateful because somebody thinks of them, or because in a way or a hundred others, somebody, to the very least, regards them. On his part, this entails one true thing for which he ought to be thankful himself—his aching desire to draw an idea or enunciate each emotion, spontaneous or contrived, good or otherwise, in fine and creative written form.

All this special time he has come to realize that two things in his poems and works are unmistakably consistent, or persistent: pain and glory, or worded otherwise, agony and ecstasy.

These extremes, expressions in themselves, have always been apparent in his metaphors or insinuated in his narration. Though these pieces which he has enjoyed putting on paper do not necessarily conform to the numerous literary standards or rules on style of his day, they have to make sense for perhaps they have been spontaneously written—but always to manifest an undisguised spirit born to pain and redeemed by ecstasy, speaking truth and nothing less.

His poetry, for instance, contain tension, some conflict fragmented either in details or in mixed metaphors. Though one particular poem written out of angst appears to have a forced ending, the person to whom he has given the work would tell him that someone who writes these lines, or even just comes to think about it is one tormented spirit—“a grim soul,” in fact.

A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.

At times, because he spontaneously writes these poems and essays, he also makes it a point to revise them before he finally gives them to persons whom he knows and who can relate to them.

Revising these unsolicited pieces enables him to be more insightful about every thought, emotion or experience therein.

Because spontaneity and therefore truths among these pieces may be sacrificed or unfortunately wasted if he revises his works, he is better convinced that the unrevised ones tell the best thing in this conscious endeavour.

Every unedited or unpolished piece contains the grim provocation, the raw emotion, the stolid person.

Yet, along with the ill forms and sad projections is his heart for the good—the highest hope, the unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness in all things, a constant, optimistic disposition that will banish all the afflictions rendered by reality.

  

Versions and Revisions. March & May 1999/ January 2000/ February 2011



Delusions of Grandeur

Bantaak an init kan saldang sa Avenue, kaya hali sa luwas mainiton nagdadaradalagan ka palaog sa Ateneo. Patuyatoy ka sa Xavier Chapel. Malipot-lipot sa laog kan Chapel. Nahayahayan ka. Tuminindog ka sana sa gilid, harani sa pinto.

 

Nahiling mo an dakulang missal nakahulid sa entrada sa taid kan benditadong tubig sa may confessionario. Igwang ibang mga nagpaparangadie. Natrangkilo ka yaon nahihiling mo an dakulang Krusipiho nakasa’bit sa altar sa puro.

 

Diyos ko, dai Mo man po ‘ko pababayaan. Ta’wi man po ako nin kusog nin boot, linaw nin isip—sa gabos kong gigibohon sa ngonyan. Ama Niamo.

 

Pagluwas mo sa kapilya, nataka ka. Yaon an istatwa ni San Francisco Javier, sa gilid kan pinto palaog sa Wooden Building nakatungkahal kapot an krusipiho. Igwang nagsisirisilyab sa saiyang lalawgon, igwang garo nagsisirisirilyab sa saiyang lawas. Bagá na riboribong liwanag an naghahale sa saiyang hawak.

 

Daing untok na garo riniritrato an Santo kan kadakuldakul na cameraman sa luwas kan Four Pillars. Ano daw yan? Tibaad nagmimilagro an Santo (saimo), saboot mo. Sabi mo nagtataong-galang gayod an Santo sa Ginoo. Nagkiling ka sa luwas, tibaad kun saen hali an mga nagriritrato.

 

Nagbagting nang ala una.  Mapoon na an Practical Arts ki Mrs. Dayan.  Lakaw na, sige na. gwang garo nagsunson saimo.

 

Palaog ka sa klase, dai ka napapanultol. Nagmilagro gayod sako si San Francisco, saboot mo. Magayon palan digdi sa Ateneo. An mga milagro ordinaryo.

 

 

 NA(GKA)SALA NIN MAKURI SA HUNA HUNA

An garo riboribong liwanag na nagsisirisirilyab hali sa salming kan mga salakyan na minaralaog sa Ateneo, sagkod mga tricycle na nagdadaralhog nin mga pasahero sa may trangkahan kan eskwelahan. Huna mo sagkod na sana an pagtaong-galang kan tawo sa Santo. Huna mo nagmimilagro saimo an Santo. Huna mo an milagro ordinaryo.

Traveling

 Of all your activities in a year, traveling tires you the most.

It requires you to do the things you don’t usually do, or want to do.

The night before you take the early morning flight, you pack a set of clothes and things. You become critical which wardrobe to use—which shirts to bring for the simbang gabi or wear during the family’s media noche, which jacket to leave behind because it weighs more than the bag itself. You do not bring gadgets that won’t serve any purpose during the family reunion. You need to bring only the things you need.

In the black duffel bag which weighs less than a kilo, you accommodate all your sensibilities. You like the bag very much because it is too light, yet it cannot make room for some 20 things you have acquired in the past twelve months—clothes, gadgets, books and personal accessories. You wonder then where you can put your food—solid or otherwise—so you don’t get hungry along the way, so your ulcer doesn’t worsen. You see you cannot bring a lot of things. You realize you need not be attached to them even as Nene, your sister always told you.

Traveling from Visayas to Luzon and back, you badly need to travel light. But you know you won’t be able to. After putting inside the bag only the stuff you need, other things would turn up and “bring” themselves to you as you further prepare to leave. The one bag of all your necessities becomes two plus three “hand-carries” so that they contain the pasalubong and other holiday gifts.

You look at the trinkets and accessories and handicrafts made from coconut shells by your humble farmer cooperator Nong Bebot and his wife and children in the sleepy town of Ivisan in Capiz. You cannot just leave them behind because months ago yet, you already prepared these masterpieces as gifts to your brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces. You miss them dearly you have not seen their persons lately you will give them things to remember you for.

The next morning, you catch the shuttle van from the mall and off you go to the Santa Barbara airport—along with three big bags and some heavier anticipations. Some 27,000 feet up in the air, you think of Manoy, your eldest brother, brandishing the souvenir toy car made from coconut shells as his prized possession. You remember how you insisted on Nong Bebot to personalize this sort of gifts by writing the names of your brothers and yourself on the toys’ little hoods and bumpers.

  

The effort and the artistry involved in making these novelty products are essentially what you want to share to your family. For you, such are the best things to share. But you also think maybe just like birds and such other animals scattering branches and things from one habitat to another, you act as an agency of trade but also a messenger of the arts. You act as a middleman good for someone’s business but virtually you are also an agent of sharing in the holiday season.

You anticipate how euphoric Manay, your sister in-law, will be once she tries on the three-layered necklace made from coconut shells and beads. You imagine her welcoming the New Year with all these circles and similar things on her; you wish she will be more financially secure this time because you have always been told it is best to meet the New Year with ball-like fruits and spherical things in people’s pockets and dining table. You combine superstition with religion. Yet, even when you cloud your faith with some Jojo Acuin rhetoric, one perennial truth remains—you long for the family you’ve missed all these months you have been away from home.

Sooner, you will hear thank you from them but maybe what you will get is utter silence. Maybe their being quiet means they want something else from you. Maybe they will want what they have always wanted from you year in year out. Something more than what you can always give—they will want you to be happy. And perhaps their silence will say they are not convinced that you are.

Of all your occupations, going home thrills you the most. You always want to bond with the family you missed once you’re given the chance. Year in, year out, you appreciate it is the best and only space that you are born to fill. You are only their own blood, nothing else.

Your plane landed quite ungracefully it almost wanted to smash the passengers’ bodies on the ground, but then you thank the Lord for having inspired the pilot to have taken the safest air paths faithfully. The entire trip, you have kept your fingers crossed. The crew announces you have arrived five minutes earlier than expected. Thank you, Sir, the flight attendant says as you disembark. You smile and yawn.

As you now greet the smoggy air, you see Manila, the noisy, sprawling metropolis. The sight of tedium and traffic greets you. You shake off some jetlag by humming with Julio Iglesias on your mp3 player. But you see you need to be more alert. You have to keep an eye on your valuables, because you remember this is Manila.

You wouldn’t want the three bags to be reduced to two or one as you make your way further out the terminal. Even though you badly wanted to travel light, it should be okay for you to bring these other luggage for the sake of family.

Far beyond the traffic inching its way through Pasay Road, you picture Maria and Xhanemma, your nieces opening their gifts back in your brother’s house in San Vicente, breathlessly trying on the quaint bracelets, and pairing them with the equally artful earrings made of payaw seeds. Where else would you want to go?

Traveling

Of all your activities in a year, traveling tires you the most. It requires you to do the things you don’t usually do, or want to do.

The night before you take the early morning flight, you pack a set of clothes and things. You become critical which wardrobe to use—which shirts to bring for the simbang gabi or wear during the family’s media noche, which jacket to leave behind because it weighs more than the bag itself. You do not bring gadgets that won’t serve any purpose during the family reunion. You need to bring only the things you need.

In the black bag which weighs less than a kilo, you accommodate all your sensibilities. You like the bag very much because it is too light, yet it cannot make room for some 20 things you have acquired in the past twelve months—clothes, gadgets, books and personal accessories. You wonder then where you can put your food—solid or otherwise—so you don’t get hungry along the way, so your ulcer doesn’t worsen. You see you cannot bring a lot of things. You realize you need not be attached to them even as Nene, your sister always told you.

Traveling from Visayas to Luzon and back, you badly need to travel light. But you know you won’t be able to. After putting inside the bag only the stuff you need, other things would turn up and “bring” themselves to you as you further prepare to leave. The one bag of all your necessities becomes two plus three “hand-carries” so that they contain the pasalubong and other holiday gifts.

You look at the trinkets and accessories and handicrafts made from coconut shells by your humble farmer cooperator Nong Bebot and his wife and children in the sleepy town of Ivisan in Capiz. You cannot just leave them behind because months ago yet, you already prepared these masterpieces as gifts to your brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces. You miss them dearly you have not seen their persons lately you will give them things to remember you for.

The next morning, you catch the shuttle van from the mall and off you go to the Santa Barbara airport—along with three big bags and some heavier anticipations. Some 27,000 feet up in the air, you think of Manoy, your eldest brother, brandishing the souvenir toy car made from coconut shells as his prized possession. You remember how you insisted on Nong Bebot to personalize this sort of gifts by writing the names of your brothers and yourself on the toys’ little hoods and bumpers.

The effort and the artistry involved in making these novelty products are essentially what you want to share to your family. For you, such are the best things to share. But you also think maybe just like birds and such other animals scattering branches and things from one habitat to another, you act as an agency of trade but also a messenger of the arts. You act as a middleman good for someone’s business but virtually you are also an agent of sharing in the holiday season.

You anticipate how euphoric Manay, your sister in-law, will be once she tries on the three-layered necklace made from coconut shells and beads. You imagine her welcoming the New Year with all these circles and similar things on her; you wish she will be more financially secure this time because you have always been told it is best to meet the New Year with ball-like fruits and spherical things in people’s pockets and dining table. You combine superstition with religion. Yet, even when you cloud your faith with some Jojo Acuin rhetoric, one perennial truth remains—you long for the family you’ve missed all these months you have been away from home.

Sooner, you will hear thank you from them but maybe what you will get is utter silence. Maybe their being quiet means they want something else from you. Maybe they will want what they have always wanted from you year in year out. Something more than what you can always give—they will want you to be happy. And perhaps their silence will say they are not convinced that you are.

Of all your occupations, going home thrills you the most. You always want to bond with the family you missed once you’re given the chance. Year in, year out, you appreciate it is the best and only space that you are born to fill. You are only their own blood, nothing else.

Your plane landed quite ungracefully it almost wanted to smash the passengers’ bodies on the ground, but then you thank the Lord for having inspired the pilot to have taken the safest air paths faithfully. The entire trip, you have kept your fingers crossed. The crew announces you have arrived five minutes earlier than expected. Thank you, Sir, the flight attendant says as you disembark. You smile and yawn.

As you now greet the smoggy air, you see Manila, the noisy, sprawling metropolis. The sight of tedium and traffic greets you. You shake off some jetlag by humming with Julio Iglesias on your mp3 player. But you see you need to be more alert. You have to keep an eye on your valuables, because you remember this is Manila.

You wouldn’t want the three bags to be reduced to two or one as you make your way further out the terminal. Even though you badly wanted to travel light, it should be okay for you to bring these other luggage for the sake of family.

Far beyond the traffic inching its way through Pasay Road, you picture Maria and Xhanemma, your nieces opening their gifts back in your brother’s house in San Vicente, breathlessly trying on the quaint bracelets, and pairing them with the equally artful earrings made of payaw seeds. Where else would you want to go?

 

Guernica*? Bako, Gueta. Gueta Garbo.

[Guernica*? No, Gueta. Gueta Garbo.]

Usip-usip Ninda Niño Manaog sagkod Cesar Gueta 

[Interview with Cesar Gueta]

Ano an pagpinta segun ki Cesar Gueta? What is art for Cesar Gueta?

Art is my lifelong engagement. Making an artwork for me is beyond the visual. I consider other aspects like metaphors and complexities of life—love, tragedy, etc.

Ta’no ta nagpipinta si Cesar Gueta? What motivates Cesar Gueta to paint?

What’s important to me is my feeling. I actualize it with the use of my mind and hands. My heart dominates the rest of my senses.

Kun igwang ibang pagkakaabalahan si Gueta apwera sa pagpinta, ano ini? Ta’no? What would Cesar Gueta do if he wouldn’t paint? Elaborate.

I could engage myself in product designing, architectural works or academe.

Kun dai naimbento an pagpinta, ano kuta an ginigibo ngonyan ni Cesar Gueta? If art were not invented, what would Cesar Gueta be doing?

I would have been a priest.

Sairisay an mga impluwensya ni Cesar Gueta? Siisay an saimong hinahangaan, kinokopya, o gustong malapawan sa kinaban nin pagpinta? Nata’ man sinda? Name the painters whom you idolize, copy or desire to dethrone. Why?

Cezanne was a forerunner of impressionist art. Scott Burdick is a modern impressionist (who uses) purely brush strokes.

"Manobo," Oil on Canvas, 2" x 2"

Ano na an nahaman ni Gueta sa pagpinta? Karapatdapat ka man daw? Cite your highest achievements in visual arts. Do you deserve them?

In my 3 decades in art in which I had my ups and down—I could say engaging in art has made me a better person.

Ano an dai pa nahaman ni Gueta sa pagpinta? Maaabot mo an mga ini? Pa’no? What have you not yet achieved in visual arts? Will you achieve them? How?

Destiny leads me wherever my heart goes. I believe in myself and family’s support for this endeavor—this is a journey that is never ending.

Igwa na daw nahaman na Guernica si Gueta? Kun dai pa, nuarin daw ni? Have you made your obra maestra? If not yet, when will this be?

In some art competitions, I made original entries that people consider remarkable.

Ano an grand plan ni Gueta sa pagpinta? What do you want to achieve as a painter? (Being a painter is one ambition, though.)

I never have a grand ambition in life. In my career as a painter, my fulfillment is when my artworks touch the lives of many. 

Para sa mga bohemio sana man daa an (pag-in)arte. Nagtutubod ka digdi? Pakipaliwanag. Art is for bohemians—elites, etc.—only. Do you believe so? Please explain.

Art foretells history. If historians are considered elite, so is art. But that is not the case; art is a statement of time. 

Pa’no magiging kapakipakinabang sa sociedad an parapinta? How does a painter become socially relevant?

He does when his artwork touches many lives.

Ta’no ta kaipuhan ta’wan nin atensyon si Cesar Gueta, kun iyo man nanggad baga? Why (do people have to) pay attention to Cesar Gueta, if at all?

If the writer writes, it’s the painter that paints.

*A painting by Pablo Picasso, Guernica shows the tragedies of war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians. This work has gained a monumental status, becoming a perpetual reminder of the tragedies of war, an anti-war symbol, and an embodiment of peace. 

Cesar Gueta, "Subliminal," 2010

Cesar T. Gueta is a Legazpi-City based painter specializing in the use of water color as medium. He is currently an associate professor in Fine Arts at the Aquinas University College of Architecture and Fine Arts (CAFA). He is also a product design consultant for export for the Department of Trade and Industry. The 36-year old artist honed his natural talent in the arts during his formative years in childhood, making arts as a child’s play. His artistic talent was further enhanced during his time in college at the Aquinas University CAFA. He joined various national art competions, making it to the finals of the Shell and Metrobank National Arts Competition in Manila sponsored by the Spanish Embassy for his painting entitled “Domestic Helper”. Gueta sees his combined knowledge in Architecture and Fine Arts as an advantage, seeing things in a different perspective, and knowing that “art is a living inscription of time, visual statement of recent history and a reference for future use.” Gueta hails from Monreal, Masbate. (Bionote from dagospo.com)

Check out Cesar Gueta's watercolorworld. Visit http://www.dagospo.com/ or http://cesargueta.webs.com/.

Guernica*? Bako, Gueta. Gueta Garbo.

[Guernica*? No, Gueta. Gueta Garbo.]

Usip-usip Ninda Niño Manaog sagkod Cesar Gueta 

[Interview with Cesar Gueta]

Ano an pagpinta segun ki Cesar Gueta? What is art for Cesar Gueta?

Art is my lifelong engagement. Making an artwork for me is beyond the visual. I consider other aspects like metaphors and complexities of life—love, tragedy, etc.

Ta’no ta nagpipinta si Cesar Gueta? What motivates Cesar Gueta to paint?

What’s important to me is my feeling. I actualize it with the use of my mind and hands. My heart dominates the rest of my senses.

Kun igwang ibang pagkakaabalahan si Gueta apwera sa pagpinta, ano ini? Ta’no? What would Cesar Gueta do if he wouldn’t paint? Elaborate.

I could engage myself in product designing, architectural works or academe.

Kun dai naimbento an pagpinta, ano kuta an ginigibo ngonyan ni Cesar Gueta? If art were not invented, what would Cesar Gueta be doing?

I would have been a priest.

Sairisay an mga impluwensya ni Cesar Gueta? Siisay an saimong hinahangaann, kinokopya, o gusting malapawan sa kinaban nin pagpinta? Nata’ man sinda? Name the painters whom you idolize, copy or desire to dethrone. Why?

Cezanne was a forerunner of impressionist art. Scott Burdick is a modern impressionist (who uses) purely brush strokes.

"Manobo," Oil on Canvas, 2" x 2"

Ano na an nahaman ni Gueta sa pagpinta? Karapatdapat ka man daw? Cite your highest achievements in visual arts. Do you deserve them?

In my 3 decades in art in which I had my ups and down—I could say engaging in art has made me a better person.

Ano an dai pa nahaman ni Gueta sa pagpinta? Maaabot mo an mga ini? Pa’no? What have you not yet achieved in visual arts? Will you achieve them? How?

Destiny leads me wherever my heart goes. I believe in myself and family’s support for this endeavor—this is a journey that is never ending.

Igwa na daw nahaman na Guernica si Gueta? Kun dai pa, nuarin daw ni? Have you made your obra maestra? If not yet, when will this be?

In some art competitions, I made original entries that people consider remarkable.

Ano an grand plan ni Gueta sa pagpinta? What do you want to achieve as a painter? (Being a painter is one ambition, though.)

I never have a grand ambition in life. In my career as a painter, my fulfillment is when my artworks touch the lives of many. 

Para sa mga bohemio sana man daa an (pag-in)arte. Nagtutubod ka digdi? Pakipaliwanag.

Art is for bohemians—elites, etc.—only. Do you believe so? Please explain.

Art foretells history. If historians are considered elite, so is art. But that is not the case; art is a statement of time. 

Pa’no magiging kapakipakinabang sa sociedad an parapinta? How does a painter become socially relevant?

He does when his artwork touches many lives.

Ta’no ta kaipuhan ta’wan nin atensyon si Cesar Gueta, kun iyo man nanggad baga? Why (do people have to) pay attention to Cesar Gueta, if at all?

If the writer writes, it’s the painter that paints.

*A painting by Pablo Picasso, Guernica shows the tragedies of war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians. This work has gained a monumental status, becoming a perpetual reminder of the tragedies of war, an anti-war symbol, and an embodiment of peace. 

Cesar Gueta, "Subliminal," 2010

Cesar T. Gueta is a Legazpi-City based painter specializing in the use of water color as medium. He is currently an associate professor in Fine Arts at the Aquinas University College of Architecture and Fine Arts (CAFA). He is also a product design consultant for export for the Department of Trade and Industry. The 36-year old artist honed his natural talent in the arts during his formative years in childhood, making arts as a child’s play. His artistic talent was further enhanced during his time in college at the Aquinas University CAFA. He joined various national art competions, making it to the finals of the Shell and Metrobank National Arts Competition in Manila sponsored by the Spanish Embassy for his painting entitled “Domestic Helper”. Gueta sees his combined knowledge in Architecture and Fine Arts as an advantage, seeing things in a different perspective, and knowing that “art is a living inscription of time, visual statement of recent history and a reference for future use.” Gueta hails from Monreal, Masbate. (Bionote from dagospo.com)

Check out Cesar Gueta's watercolorworld. Visit http://www.dagospo.com/ or http://cesargueta.webs.com/.

Miling

Ni Raphael Francis Saavedra

Kan aldaw na magadan si Miling, nagkakurubhan si mga taga-Bagacay sa kurahaw ni Eta, an saiyang esposa.

Tanda ko pa si kinurahaw ni Eta kan aldaw na idto—“Miling, dai ko na ika mahahadukan sa saimong payo!”

An payo kaya gayod ni Miling ginikanan kan manlaen-laen na dunong kan saindang anom na aki—Emma, Junior, Salvador, Ofelia, Manuel sagkod Antonio. Sinasabi man na an payo ni Miling nanganaan kan mga illegal logger asin ginibo ining airport.

Si Miling. Beterano, maestro, ama, lolo. Principal kan barrio. Bantog si Miling sa Bagacay sa apod na “Sir”—idolo kan mga tao, idolo kan mga engkanto.

Dai ko man nanggad malilingawan si Miling—kinakatakutan nin mga paratatsi; linilikayan kan mga mayong ugali. Dawa sa mga makuapo niya an pagdisiplina sagkod na sana.

Sarong beses, pinaruluhod niya si apat kong tugang sa atubang kan Sagrado Corazon—dahil sa sala kan saro nadamay si tolo ta nagpaparangirisi kaya. Nagparangisi man ako alagad dai ko nakabale ta nagsasapna kaya ako.

Igwa man vez na ako an igwang nakadulak na tugang. Kaya pinaarapod niya kami sa libod. Poon alas nueveng agang sermon abot sinarom, saro sana an nasabutan ko sa halabaon na sermon—pasensya. Dawa daa agrabyado, [mag]pasensya.

Dai ko ito naiintindihan kaidto alagad kan mawara na siya, saka sana tuminadom an hulit niya sako. Pasensya. Dapat halabaon an saimong pasensya. Iyan gayod an dahilan kun ta’no dai siya malingawan kan mga tawo digdi sa lugar mi.

Kan siya magadan sa Aldaw nin Pagkamoot, nakatiriwi, mangkakanos kan mga lalawgon kan mga taga-Bagacay. Kan magadan si Miling, pati an kinaban nakisumaro sa paghibi kan mga engkanto.

Kan aldaw man na idto, nakanood ako saiya—tighurophurop ko si mga tigsabi niya sako. Ngonyan siya saro na sanang istorya.

Dios mabalos po, Lolo Miling.

Sarong pagsalingoy sa nakaagi ni Emiliano Saavedra, Sr., sa minsan na pag-iribahan mi duman kun saen ako nagpoon.

 

Emiliano Salvosa Saavedra, Sr. (05 Enero 1915–14 Febrero 1997)