tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257975222024-03-07T09:59:00.608+01:00Letters From the Outlandsby Lakambini "Bing" Sitoy: author, artist, traveller
Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-88672453511101022652024-02-21T22:00:00.005+01:002024-02-22T00:19:05.509+01:00Malacañang Museum Independence Day feature, III (1996)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYkmjGjfkg6m5yrAJY3GZrlSIB6p1zcOrB1E4KGUpVtqTbv5XHbWX2GmFs7zc40SpYZMk98_BZzrjJNzdv1p1aFYDtj9GQMv5V4NyFuq_BvB9bnAiVBSFS8dRvsqMW6K4nvVYgFEuXyd5ACGtoROiMjcFVPVrWKHSU-1I1sjo948jKBjPrt9MRg/s1377/Copy%20417538129_1784456012024070_3006654306082831185_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1377" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYkmjGjfkg6m5yrAJY3GZrlSIB6p1zcOrB1E4KGUpVtqTbv5XHbWX2GmFs7zc40SpYZMk98_BZzrjJNzdv1p1aFYDtj9GQMv5V4NyFuq_BvB9bnAiVBSFS8dRvsqMW6K4nvVYgFEuXyd5ACGtoROiMjcFVPVrWKHSU-1I1sjo948jKBjPrt9MRg/w400-h313/Copy%20417538129_1784456012024070_3006654306082831185_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>by Lakambini Sitoy</b></p><p><b>Photos by Willie Avila</b></p><p><i>This feature appeared in the Independence Day edition of The Evening Paper (June 12, 1996). I have not been to the Malacañang Palace Museum since. Doubtless it is much changed. </i></p><p>Third of three parts</p><p><br /></p><p>The Ferdinand E. Marcos room contains a portrait of the late president as a young man; he stands on a mountain of some sort, one foot confidently up on a rock, as he holds a couple of stone tablets, sort of Moses coming down from Mount Sinai. Above the portrait hangs the seal of the President of the Republic of the Philippines, which no one else but Marcos used. Instead of the traditional merlion, which stood for ultra mares, Spanish dominion over all the seas of the world, is an eagle, Marcos’s personal symbol. </p><p>Marcos was elected to office in 1965, imposed martial law on September 21, 1972, and was deposed in a bloodless coup d'etat on February 1986. His unpopularity in many quarters here and abroad has not been stressed, however. The display is as neutral as those of the other presidents. One thing of interest though, is a blackboard standing in a corner of the room, in approximately the place where the jubilant crowd that burst into Malacañang after the Marcos’s departure found it. Drawn on the blackboard is a map of EDSA, Camp Aguinaldo and Camp Crame. It was drawn, says Mae Gaffud, by generals loyal to President Marcos shortly before the departure of the president and his aides in February of 1986. When President Ramos takes his guests around personally, he explains how the figures on one side of the board, 300 men in Aguinaldo, 500 in Crame, two tanks, one light anti-aircraft gun, etcetera, were a bloated estimate of the number of personnel and weapons under his command. </p><p>The Macapagal Room is comparatively bare, containing some old photographs, and the portrait of Diosdado Macapagal, fifth president of the Third Philippine Republic, his term running from 1961 to 1965. It is supposed to be a music room; there is a gramophone and an old piano. This was one-half of the bedroom of Ferdinand Marcos. On the ceiling is a circle containing several triangles made out of pieces of wood. Marcuos allegedly believed that the pyramid was a symbol of power and would restore one's health. This room reportedly contains a secret panel hiding the staircase that leads to the back of Kalayaan Hall. </p><p>“Mrs. Evangeline Macapagal is in the process of sending us her husband's memorabilia,” Gaffud says, by way of explaining the sparseness of the Macapagal display. “Her husband wants to have a hand in the selection of each piece.” </p><p>One goes past elevators that lead to the basement, which the Marcos couple used. The elevators are no longer in service. The next room is the President Fidel V. Ramos room, not devoted to memorabilia but displaying gifts from the leaders of various nations, including a pilot's helmet and goggles given to Ramos, in acknowledgement of his role in piloting the nation towards Philippines 2000. The room does not seem to have been designed around any theme. The Foundation plans to put in exhibits that would reflect the programs that Ramos initiated and is spearheading.</p><p>The Corazon C. Aquino Room is a welcome relief from all that narra paneling. Its walls are painted white, and before entering it, one goes through a sitting room, also in white, with two contemporary chairs positioned by a lamp shade. On the walls of this room are imposing images from the February 1986 EDSA revolution, which resulted in the overthrow of the Marcoses and Aquino’s assumption of the presidency. The images crackle with life: in one of them, riot police hose down demonstrators at a barricade, in another, then-presidential candidate Aquino is mobbed by supporters as she travels down the street in an open vehicle. Entering the room itself, the first thing one sees is the painting of the EDSA Revolution, mural-like, entitled Inang Bayan and done by Nemi Miranda. On the wall is a bank of framed international magazine covers, all with President Aquino on the cover. The furniture is in tasteful beige. Another object of interest is a sheet of uncut paper money, 500 peso bills bearing the image of Senator Benigno Aquino, her husband, once a possible candidate for the presidency before his assassination in 1983. Mrs. Aquino has personally affixed her signature to each one. </p><p>The Museum ends at the changing exhibit gallery, which overlooks the Atrium. The displays here are personally decided by President Fidel Ramos. The latest exhibits relate to the events that led to the Philippine Revolution in 1898. The last display featured the Philippine flag, the various designs that preceded the current one, and the groups that used them. When foreign dignitaries come to visit, Gaffud explained, the exhibits are changed to reflect the Philippines relations with their home country. </p><p>Beyond the gallery are more halls, but these are used for official business and hence closed to the public. The sounds of an ongoing press conference may reach visitors through the woodwork, tantalizing one with the prospect of running into President Ramos in person, but this possibility is nil. The armed security men who guard this exit seat to that. </p><p><br /></p><p>THE MUSEUM is scheduled to reopen following month-long renovations that help to protect the displays from the onslaught of the rains and the annual rising of the Pasig River. Apart from the ravages of nature, the exhibits must be protected from the intrusions of curious viewers. The items are all in the process of being insured. Mae Gaffud stresses that it is not people's money that goes into the repairs, or even into the museum itself. The Malacañang Heritage Foundation is a private, nonprofit organization. On the board of trustees is First Lady Angelita Ramos (Honorary Chairperson), Mr. Cesar N. Sarino (Chairman), Honorable Robert de Ocampo (Vice chairman), Dr. Jaime Laya (Treasurer), National Artist Napoleon Abueva, Dr. David Barradas and Mr. Cid Reyes (Trustees). </p><p>The Foundation is supported by donations from Land Bank of the Philippines, Philippine Long Distance Telephone Company, Philippine National Bank, Department of Tourism, San Miguel Corporation and others. </p><p>The bulk of its income, however, comes from the guided tours: guides ferry from 1000 to 2000 people a day through the Museum during peak season, which is October to February. These are mostly school children and tourists, Japanese, American and European. Gaffud notes that some Filipino adults have gone in completely blind, knowing next to nothing of their country's leaders. The Malacañang Palace Museum has been criticized for the spareness of its display, and perhaps its detractors are correct. But as donations and memorabilia come in, these voices may go silent. At the moment, it seems to appeal most to the very young, particularly the school children who come in droves from all over the country, as far down South as Davao and Cotabato. Hopefully they will carry the images of the museum with them to adulthood. Perhaps the connection between this nation's people and its history and leaders, severed for many generations, is on its way toward renewal.</p><p>***</p><p> copyright 1996, 2024 Lakambini Sitoy</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDpEOg3jjImiAx-oiYaI3CSPxpz45rqppzZfwiirVI3HIlsE4bVoEleP6U25pODuT3MnCjw7mGlx30a75fqClH0KthdB3v3Bykzz65g9kzG1aCm9YxDGcGZoQ8XWqI1n0Tp9D2O-PigSfi3esQBVOe697HpFwGdjJcfT3a0PwXFN14QgkAqk9tQ/s2048/417538129_1784456012024070_3006654306082831185_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1382" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDpEOg3jjImiAx-oiYaI3CSPxpz45rqppzZfwiirVI3HIlsE4bVoEleP6U25pODuT3MnCjw7mGlx30a75fqClH0KthdB3v3Bykzz65g9kzG1aCm9YxDGcGZoQ8XWqI1n0Tp9D2O-PigSfi3esQBVOe697HpFwGdjJcfT3a0PwXFN14QgkAqk9tQ/w432-h640/417538129_1784456012024070_3006654306082831185_n.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-79867385649416496972024-02-20T12:06:00.008+01:002024-02-22T00:19:21.874+01:00Malacañang Museum Independence Day feature, II (1996)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUfrFZWY4BWi0xFCjzRCyaR64DXmP2lVt2MfrhY9alN7OczYHMeKDGVyoZm9rv79vt78PSNyUXRj35fP7FCwQnNq7knUGIMidAaMw5YUexd1bU_qEhHnHSPYB9G0_ZqfEcm51pKShhEFBxcisGOurhLC0ctbPN194E-odhmGO3I6vX2vP0ga1JQ/s2048/421567797_3296517227309562_6182597636979715479_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1454" data-original-width="2048" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUfrFZWY4BWi0xFCjzRCyaR64DXmP2lVt2MfrhY9alN7OczYHMeKDGVyoZm9rv79vt78PSNyUXRj35fP7FCwQnNq7knUGIMidAaMw5YUexd1bU_qEhHnHSPYB9G0_ZqfEcm51pKShhEFBxcisGOurhLC0ctbPN194E-odhmGO3I6vX2vP0ga1JQ/w400-h284/421567797_3296517227309562_6182597636979715479_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><b>by Lakambini Sitoy</b></p><p><b>Photos by Willie Avila<br /><br /></b><i>This feature appeared in the Independence Day edition of The Evening Paper (June 12, 1996). I have not been to the Malacañang Palace Museum since. Doubtless it is much changed. </i><br /><br />CONTINUED from February 17 2024 post.<br /><br /></p><p>SERGIO Osmeña’s room, the sitting room, contains more copies of old furniture, upholstered in charming red and ivory brocade. There is a Viennese chandelier on the ceiling and an ornate carved mirror next to some framed newspaper clippings. One of these depicts the famous Leyte Landing, General Douglas MacArthur slogging through waves to reach the beach and Osmeña on his right. Osmeña became the second President of the Commonwealth Government. He was elected Vice President of the Philippine Commonwealth in 1935 and went on exile with Quezon at the outbreak of World War II. He assumed the Presidency at Quezon’s death, holding office until 1946. One of his most significant contributions to history was the signing of the Hare-Hawes Cutting Law, which promised the country's future independence from the United States. </p><p>Apart from the Leyte Landing clipping (the Foundation is trying to procure the original negative of this photograph from the archives of Time magazine) there seems to be little of historical interest in the Osmeña Room. and the museum is still awaiting more memorabilia from his family. </p><p>The wooden panels of the Osmeña Room are painted off-white and the floor, like in the other rooms before it, is of parquet. At first glance, the ceiling seems to be of basket work. But a closer look reveals it to be of pieces of split narra woven together, a time consuming but attractive piece of work. The rooms previously visited are decorated in this fashion. These had been the private quarters of the three Marcos children, Imee, Irene and Ferdinand Jr.</p><p>The next room is far more opulent, an effect created by the narra panelling, the great crystal chandelier from Vienna (the largest in the collection), and the leather-bound books that line the wall. This room is the Laurel library, housing the memorabilia of Jose P. Laurel, who was president for a brief period (1943-1944) during the Japanese occupation. The books in this room are part of the Palace collection and seem to be quite recent. Some are paperback, and there are a few that seem to be downright pulpy. In a row upon a counter that runs flush against the wall of books are framed quotes from Laurel’s speeches and writings. On a tabletop are editions of some of the books that Laurel penned. One gets the impression that Laurel was far more literary than the other presidents, but this could be because his memorabilia has been organized to complement the purported function of the room. There are more black and white photographs from Laurel’s term arranged along a free-standing board. </p><p>Arranging numerous images from each administration has its downsides, as well as its pluses. On the positive end, the numerous uncaptioned photos add to the effect that the Malacañang Heritage Foundation, no doubt was aiming for, a museum that would resemble the apartments of a well-to-do family. A series of elegantly furnished rooms, each with its own function. The memorabilia would be an almost incidental bonus then, and captions on photographs in incredibly poor taste. But the museum is not a private home. The Foundation has a mission: to give life to the collective Philippine past for the benefit of the great majority of Filipinos who are now estranged from it, and a tour guide can only do so much with her memorized spiel. Here, at least for the moment, are photographs without a context and consequently, a dozen presidents without much of a history. President Ramos's words on the Malacañang Heritage Foundation brochure ring with irony. “Our heritage is our strength. It is our link with the past. It mirrors our national soul and our aspirations. It is the embodiment of everything that is essentially Filipino.” The situation is not irremediable. Memorabilia is trickling in, according to Mae Gaffud. It comes from the National Library, the foundations of the respective presidents, from their surviving relatives. The museum is not a bad job at all for something that had to be built from air. </p><p><br /></p><p>A MAGNIFICENTLY carved archway over the door leading from the Laurel Room to the Aguinaldo room is a foretaste of what lies ahead: the presidential rooms that used to be the private suites of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. The Aguinaldo room, panelled in narra, used to be the palace chapel, and is dark and simple. Running almost its entire length is a heavy table of wood, supported by four ornately-carved legs. This is a genuine piece of goods: a conference table believed to have been the one on which the Malolos Constitution was signed. It is on long-term loan from the Central Bank, and is so heavy that it had to be transported in five pieces and reassembled in the room. </p><p>Mounted on a desk at one end is a sabre in its velvet-lined case, a replica of a weapon that belonged to Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo, President of the Philippine Revolutionary Government and President of the First Philippine Republic. Above it is one of the original battle flags used by his men in the Philippine Revolution. The flag was discovered in 1982 in the basement of the town hall of West Hartford, Connecticut. After Aguinaldo was captured by Gen. Arthur MacArthur, the American soldiers looted the countryside with impunity, and the Malacañang Heritage Foundation believes that the flag was taken to the States as one of the spoils of war. This flag resembles the contemporary Philippine flag in design. The red side has faded to a sepia tint and the blue half is now slate grey. Water stains do not quite hide the three stars and the sun. </p><p>Over at the other end of the room are more old photographs, including one of Aguinaldo leading the parade that took place before the Malolos Convention started, as well as one of the convention delegates. </p><p>The Aguinaldo chamber opens into an anteroom devoted to the First Ladies of Malacañang. Five ternos are on display here; they belonged to Mrs. Pacencia Laurel, Mrs. Luz Banzon-Magsaysay, Ms. Vicky Quirino, the second wife of President Aguinaldo, and Mrs. Imelda Marcos. None of these, sadly, were worn at (any) president's inauguration. The (actual) inaugural gowns are now the property of Mr. Adoy Escudero and are on display at Villa Escudero, a resort in Quezon Province. </p><p>Vicky Quirino became the First Lady to her widower father at age sixteen; at age eighteen, she married and wore the gown now on display. It has a long satin train and a tiny waist. Imelda Marcos’s gown is deceptively subdued, but it is made of pina fiber and is purely of callado work. Callado’d fabric is punctured in many places, the loose ends of thread tied meticulously around each opening to seal it. The result looks like delicate netting. It takes days of skilled labor to produce a gown with this feature. </p><p>Following this room is what used to be a walk-in closet large enough to hold a table and four chairs and a mirrored cabinet, with ample room to spare. This is a changing exhibit gallery. The latest display was devoted to the Dalagang Filipina and there were daguerrotypes of pure Filipino, Chinese-Filipino and Spanish-Filipino young women on the wall. In general, the exhibits chronicle life in turn-of-the-century Philippines, a period of our history that is much dwelt on, even romanticized. </p><p>When the viewer steps into the Quirino room, he cannot help but draw breath. The vaulted ceiling is carved of narra; rococo cherubs, birds and butterflies compete for the viewer's attention. And roses seem to be everywhere, spilling out of vases, creeping up the ceiling, forming a dense border around the lower edge of the vault. A huge chandelier carved of the same hardwood seems to drip from the middle of the dome. The carvings look as rich and delicate as chocolate. Skilled carvers from Betis, Pampanga, directed by master carver Juan Flores, took 180 days to decorate the whole ceiling. </p><p>This huge confection, of course, is part of the bedroom of former First Lady Imelda Marcos. It comes as a shock to discover that behind some narra panels put up by the Foundation is another room just like it, chandelier, roses and all. This is the second half of Mrs. Marcos’s bedroom; it now houses her late husband's memorabilia. </p><p>The rooms give one a claustrophobic feeling, perhaps because they are so dark and air-tight. There are absolutely no windows. The narra panelling, according to Mae Gaffud, was stripped of the deep brown veneer that dated back to the Marcos administration, to allow the natural wood coloring to show through. Even so, the room resembles a chocolate tomb. </p><p>President Elpidio Quirino’s memorabilia are quite engulfed by the decor. A painting by Fernando Amorsolo, who also did the portrait of Manuel A. Roxas, has been donated by the Quirino family, and there is a bust of the president done by the National Artist for Sculpture Guillermo Tolentino. The antique bed from Vigan that stands on the platform where Mrs. Marcos's bed used to be, is just a Malacañang Heritage Foundation acquisition. The photographs of Quirino abroad, on some of his official trips, are more authentic. Quirino succeeded Roxas, becoming 2nd President of the Third Philippine Republic. </p><div>(continued in the next post)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA5bSWos2Y4oPGpJiAERnseGNNPCzErpPZsQNbuBx5vlD7dih1mmahpmLB1vjoUHUjIi-r_WvbLp_pl7ry2DdRFB87T4rXkNrDka-w3nZwS4mb6tkL2KEu3Qf4mgRTtRrcJWTITkUYxuXHSnN2Y8OxY0JDOH3V0CqZqLCXjLO3uSONY0jf4eCBA/s2048/422198993_921796692692298_8878243564802599680_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA5bSWos2Y4oPGpJiAERnseGNNPCzErpPZsQNbuBx5vlD7dih1mmahpmLB1vjoUHUjIi-r_WvbLp_pl7ry2DdRFB87T4rXkNrDka-w3nZwS4mb6tkL2KEu3Qf4mgRTtRrcJWTITkUYxuXHSnN2Y8OxY0JDOH3V0CqZqLCXjLO3uSONY0jf4eCBA/w480-h640/422198993_921796692692298_8878243564802599680_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-59283132604451789332024-02-17T08:26:00.005+01:002024-02-20T12:05:26.964+01:00Malacañang Museum Independence Day feature (1996)<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.6667px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuLiJUZexaZ61F6jgApDPTkZ3W3DZXhyxjD9bpARcsgqpUi-D3QV01EDbSPKITtYptVsawVK7egcDMhimhtKut_vOk7riaBLVJXGsQ7uQgZtYPigkrfRKCOQWJNJNoBWMYlmdat58SGCJncXWgUdJdE_Qhh6P-tfIRu-ADGq4DyozZkmj7i_okA/s2048/422012034_874400991156410_4193009676587661765_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1396" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuLiJUZexaZ61F6jgApDPTkZ3W3DZXhyxjD9bpARcsgqpUi-D3QV01EDbSPKITtYptVsawVK7egcDMhimhtKut_vOk7riaBLVJXGsQ7uQgZtYPigkrfRKCOQWJNJNoBWMYlmdat58SGCJncXWgUdJdE_Qhh6P-tfIRu-ADGq4DyozZkmj7i_okA/w436-h640/422012034_874400991156410_4193009676587661765_n.jpg" width="436" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>by Lakambini Sitoy</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>Photos by Willie Avila</b><br /></span><i><br />This feature appeared in the Independence Day edition of The Evening Paper (June 12, 1996). I have not been to the Malacañang Palace Museum since. Doubtless it is much changed. <br /><br /></i><br /><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">FOR
SIX years after the Edsa Revolution of 1986 the public associated the words “Malacañang
Palace Museum” with the personal effects of deposed president Ferdinand E.
Marcos and his family. Visitors came to gawk at the array of Imelda R. Marcos's
possessions and the opulence of her private quarters. They ventured up the
Grand Staircase with its red carpet and </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">basketwork wood panelling, into rooms that had
been off limits to most of the public for 20 years. They streamed into the
palace out of curiosity, perhaps also in an attempt to demystify the
administration that had changed the fortunes of an entire country. </span></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fulfilling a campaign promise, President Corazon C. Aquino had decided not to
live or hold office in the palace, opening the Marcos family quarters as a
museum that would be a testament to how the former chief executive had lived
and worked. When Fidel V. Ramos was elected to the presidency in 1992, his
administration decided to retain the museum, but focused instead on the eleven
presidents who had preceded him: Emilio F. Aguinaldo (1898-1901), Manuel L. Quezon
(1934-1944), Sergio Osmeña Sr. (1944-1946), Jose P. Laurel Sr. (1943-1944),
Manuel A. Roxas (1946-1948), Elpidio R. Quirino (1948-1953), Ramon F. Magsaysay
(1953-1957), Carlos P. Garcia (1957-1961), Diosdado P. Macapagal (1961-1965),
Marcos (1965-1986) and Aquino (1986-1992).<br />
<br />
The change was motivated not so much by the desire to bury the spectre of the
Marcos administration, but by the need to call forth other ghosts, those of the
past presidents who had been consigned to dormant history and revived only in
the few months every year that their names are repeated in grade school. In
June 1992, President Ramos closed the Malacañang Palace Museum to viewers while
it underwent major reformatting. The 11 presidents were assigned a room each,
the order, determined by lot and not chronology. Portraits, furniture and
memorabilia from different sources were installed. The museum reopened in
February 1993. <br />
<br />
A guided tour of the Museum takes one first to the Atrium on the ground floor,
one of the rooms constructed during the 1978-1979 reconfiguration of Malacañang
Palace, which the Marcoses ordered in time for their silver wedding
anniversary. The vaulted glass roof allows natural light to fall on a fountain,
on groupings of tropical plants and, in between the foliage, carved wooden
statues. There is a carabao, the figure of a young woman, a fertility god. The
hallway that encloses the Atrium on all sides is lined with carvings from
Paete, Laguna, which are based on a mural by Carlos "Botong"
Francisco. They depict scenes from Philippine history. From the edge of the
atrium, one can see the 2nd floor exhibit gallery, which looks down on the sunlit
room. Museum tour groups go up the red carpeted staircase, which used to be
lined with portraits of European explorers done by unknown 19th century Spanish
artists. These paintings have been in the Palace since the time of the Governors
General. Like many of the other pieces of furniture and memorabilia, the exact
date and manner of their acquisition are unknown, since records have been lost.
Now, however, the paintings have been moved to one of the upstairs rooms excluded
in the museum tour and only the staircase and its two sentries standing at
attention, in dress uniforms patterned after those worn in the Philippine
Revolution, greet the viewer. <br />
<br />
The first president in the tour is Ramon Magsaysay. The Magsaysay room contains
a portrait above a cabinet, a carved wooden bench of Philippine origin, and a
round table. It is strangely bare. The row of five vintage photographs above
the bench is uncaptioned. In an anteroom are more photographs and a stand, and a
<i>barong tagalo</i>g that belonged to the former president. Visitors learn from the
guide that Magsaysay ordered the barong tagalog to be <i>de rigeur</i> at all official
functions. Oddly, none of his photographs show Magsaysay in this garment. <br />
<br />
A shoe mounted in a glass case in the same anteroom is quite disconcerting. It
is a two-tone shoe with an upper of canvas and black leather at the heal and
toe, a style that is back in fashion. The grommets which hold the laces are
ripped. This was a shoe that Magsaysay was wearing when he died in a plane
crash in 1957. It was the only item of his clothing recovered from the
wreckage. <br />
<br />
“People can relate most to the shoe,” says Mae Gaffud, manager of the Malacañang
Heritage Foundation, which put together the current museum display. Things like
his barong tagalog and that photograph astride his favorite horse Victory make
him more of a real person to visitors.” The Foundation hopes to stock the
museum with similarly personal items in the hope of reconstructing the former
presidents as flesh and blood entities, not just dour personages in history
text. At present it is arranging with the president's son, Senator Ramon
Magsaysay Jr, to procure the president's riding boots and saddle. These will no
doubt increase the interest value of a display that fascinates visitors as it
is; Magsaysay, says Gaffud, is the most well-known of the presidents who
preceded Marcos and Aquino.<br />
<br />
Separated from the Magsaysay display by a stretch of corridor is a chamber
dedicated to Carlos P. Garcia who succeeded Magsaysay, flying home from
Australia to be sworn in shortly after his predecessor’s death. Garcia was a
sportsman and so the foundation designed this Chamber as a game room. The first
thing that greets the eye is the monumental billiard table, carved of narra and
donated rather appropriately, by Vice-President Joseph Estrada. It looks
antique, but isn't; it was donated in 1996. Almost all the pieces of furniture
in the museum were fashioned by Filipino craftsmen and patterned after vintage
pieces. The chess sets, about seven of them, actually belonged to the former
president, who was an avid player. They never fail to catch people's attention,
Gaffud says. In this era of video entertainment, chess is regarded as a rather
stodgy business. The sets remind the younger set of what recreation was like in
Garcia's time, the late 1950s. <br />
<br />
In addition, the game room displays a set of golf clubs. There's also a board hewn
out of stone for playing <i>sungka</i>, a traditional Filipino game. Visitors retrace
their steps to the Magsaysay room and from there walk down a corridor whose
walls contain colorized photographs and engravings of Malacañang Palace,
spanning two centuries from the time it was a stone house in the country with a
bathhouse for those who wanted a leisurely dip in the Pasig River, up to the
present day. Nothing of the original structure remains. In fact, the wing of
the Palace which houses the Museum is less than 20 years old. The 1978-1979
renovations actually resulted in entirely new structures, of which the wing is
one. <br />
<br />
This corridor leads to the Quezon room. Off it is another corridor leading to
the study, which has been devoted to the memorabilia of Manuel A. Roxas, the
last President of the Commonwealth Government and the 1st President of the
Third Philippine Republic. The Roxas portrait that hangs on the wall was done
by Fernando Amorsolo. Two flags flank the portrait. One is the Philippine
standard, the other the flag of the Philippine Commonwealth. The Museum
foundation is making arrangements to have both of them framed. <br />
<br />
A glass-doored case houses old books, some of them dating back to the 16th
century and bound in what looks like vellum. In front of the Roxas portrait is
a bank of black and white photographs. A remarkable shot shows Roxas striding
confidently toward the camera, Manuel L. Quezon to his left and Sergio Osmeña
to his right. They are wearing lightweight summer suits (<i>americanas </i>these were
called) and hats, and are apparently in good humor. The photograph has no date.
None of the photographs have dates. Another photo is just a blurred black and
white shot of a crowd massed around two flags. This is a memento of the
transfer of sovereignty from the United States to the Philippines on July 4, 1946.
The Philippine flag is going up, the American coming down. It takes a good eye
to spot this photo though, and to pinpoint its historical significance. <br />
<br />
The furniture in this room was procured only last year. Still, the long
conference table and polished mahogany desk exude a quaint charm in the glow of
the Viennese chandelier. The chairs are varnished in black with bronze
trimmings. An atmosphere of wealth and quiet dignity pervades this room, as it
does with most of the first half dozen rooms in the museum. The Malacañang Heritage
Foundation is to be commended for achieving this look from scratch. <br />
<br />
When the foundation took over the museum in 1992, they inherited the furniture
put there by Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. Most of these were of foreign origin,
and some were quite opulent, showy. Obviously, these ran counter to the
Foundation's intentions: to assemble a look for each room that would reflect
the furniture and decor that a particular president would have lived with. The
Marcos furniture is now in storage along with Mrs. Marcos's personal positions,
including her infamous collection of shoes. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">THE
anteroom devoted to the memorabilia of Manuel L. Quezon was once the private sitting
room of Imee and Irene Marcos, Ferdinand Marcos’s daughters. Quezon became the
1st President of the Commonwealth Government, holding office from 1935 to 1944,
and holds the added distinction of being the first Filipino president to reside
in Malacañang Palace. During World War Two, he moved the seat of government
from Bataan to Corregidor to Australia and finally to Washington, DC. He died
of tuberculosis while in exile in New York. The Quezon Room was funded by the
San Miguel Corporation, which is co-owned by the Soriano family. Don Andres
Soriano was the Secretary of Finance in the Quezon war cabinet; a photo of him
hangs above a sculpture by Graciano Nepomuceno entitled Inang Bayan, which
symbolizes the Philippines as ravaged by the Second World War. The sculpture
depicts a dead woman with an infant trying to suckle at her breast. <br />
<br />
Two items from this display actually date back to Quezon’s term and were used
in the palace by the president himself. One is a console, the other a cabinet
to the right of the Quezon portrait painted by Leon Burton. They are attributed
to the inmates of the Iwahig Penal colony and are impressed with the seal of
the Commonwealth government. The set of chairs in the center of the room, which
are of wood and rattan, are old as well, but not as old as the first two
pieces. <br />
<br />
Unlike most of the other presidents’ memorabilia, the Garcia golf clubs, for
instance, these pieces of furniture were not procured by the Malacañang
Heritage Foundation, but were and still are part of the Palace collection. The
official portraits of the different presidents have the same status. Visitors
may wonder at this point why so little of the original palace furniture
remains. No one can say exactly when the furniture, the official china and the
silverware began to vanish, but sources say they were given away during the
Marcos administration at about the time of the 1978 to 1979 renovations. They
have reputedly been distributed among private individuals. This gradual erasure
of so much of the palace legacy is responsible for the bareness of most of the
rooms today, and the resemblance to empty stage sets. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>(The feature article continues in my next blog post)</span></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVY8ojRGJNp09wl9nnZ_Szkc6Rw5X6eqhkawO8jak_PivBnBXQaOh94uMjAPDlzGOJq93epuQGe2R4vzQX7xILNnEjmJYdmZLB6W6DyGn3v5aJqwc8VRbyksTG9ffssvxRBz3IuSKYKvwvTIZtylUUH6pAUSJmgzyVYDR-TOJN7d4gUWfBwpKfEQ/s2048/423221518_933204138398897_1020983429791174893_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1418" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVY8ojRGJNp09wl9nnZ_Szkc6Rw5X6eqhkawO8jak_PivBnBXQaOh94uMjAPDlzGOJq93epuQGe2R4vzQX7xILNnEjmJYdmZLB6W6DyGn3v5aJqwc8VRbyksTG9ffssvxRBz3IuSKYKvwvTIZtylUUH6pAUSJmgzyVYDR-TOJN7d4gUWfBwpKfEQ/w444-h640/423221518_933204138398897_1020983429791174893_n.jpg" width="444" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><p></p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-49688062285297274282024-02-10T08:35:00.002+01:002024-02-17T09:01:50.279+01:00Sunday Inquirer, May 23, 1999: "The Latest Palanca Award winners: a literary feast." <p> <span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">
</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yAx41tT-1qaMIZzDkhK2eSte3kruy3qamOWQzuMUiPksqgHtrq4nIitwR6BG_AsQA4WRjpRhsFAFdi_9ClFagc9iENG2XwFOPUckSoSKNafGEMCfeCqAHlVBr9UgglqvyFgfEKmMTN0yPLgn9KIw9i60EQ7SoiHzdbANzn50wfcFU6u9Q9loFg/s1441/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1441" data-original-width="931" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yAx41tT-1qaMIZzDkhK2eSte3kruy3qamOWQzuMUiPksqgHtrq4nIitwR6BG_AsQA4WRjpRhsFAFdi_9ClFagc9iENG2XwFOPUckSoSKNafGEMCfeCqAHlVBr9UgglqvyFgfEKmMTN0yPLgn9KIw9i60EQ7SoiHzdbANzn50wfcFU6u9Q9loFg/w414-h640/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing.jpg" width="414" /></a></div><br /><b>
Blast from the past. Me in the Sunday Inquirer magazine with other Philippine/Manila literati, May 23, 1999: "The Latest Palanca Award winners: a literary feast."</b><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcD0yNpbOCz6cdvT2CCiPeUCMj5aD4hqTFnq-5lrIXdsP81z7orchuoGxTCGY2drBUbAFndEnx8n8eiTf3oCd02O5m-g6r_fBkk8V9LNiUNHRtw4-rzqcfECmR5Z0UKB2iLmq-Yfv74kveBxdJWG7TlFUrBc4bHs59pUSbT4HL86IJOlvBk5cpQ/s2048/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1654" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcD0yNpbOCz6cdvT2CCiPeUCMj5aD4hqTFnq-5lrIXdsP81z7orchuoGxTCGY2drBUbAFndEnx8n8eiTf3oCd02O5m-g6r_fBkk8V9LNiUNHRtw4-rzqcfECmR5Z0UKB2iLmq-Yfv74kveBxdJWG7TlFUrBc4bHs59pUSbT4HL86IJOlvBk5cpQ/w516-h640/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing3.jpg" width="516" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvNwyPS0UPMBfdogWqMX9cvWPRE10W7f2BL5k_AwaMm62dUyLHl7LAcuOmjiCkfxpQ-APhGz-P48WTqQK5p8hEWbQlci3z6uaK7QUTKvX3orBsOxC3T2UmXoFWmTArtsH-d_cn6hmetBG_JC1kZE_UWIwJHoXMdwrUWKhgIejnqYjQnLgUZm-NA/s2048/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1581" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvNwyPS0UPMBfdogWqMX9cvWPRE10W7f2BL5k_AwaMm62dUyLHl7LAcuOmjiCkfxpQ-APhGz-P48WTqQK5p8hEWbQlci3z6uaK7QUTKvX3orBsOxC3T2UmXoFWmTArtsH-d_cn6hmetBG_JC1kZE_UWIwJHoXMdwrUWKhgIejnqYjQnLgUZm-NA/w494-h640/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing4.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuLzNaRd3ARnot4_Wt2JejTamfVYZ8ItA3IerrVDeTWwJtdpsXgaqgFwpckUiK5Nzl8ChbhAWYKH0myVaFRbaXGCu3fI9CO1nersANO38p8oa2Qsr7me6-9z9VhIV-7QxjLtwsytJebZhcaKjRKEXoSy5T4Dn7_I0PqyaFnbhxOFWE2wTMxuRmA/s2048/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuLzNaRd3ARnot4_Wt2JejTamfVYZ8ItA3IerrVDeTWwJtdpsXgaqgFwpckUiK5Nzl8ChbhAWYKH0myVaFRbaXGCu3fI9CO1nersANO38p8oa2Qsr7me6-9z9VhIV-7QxjLtwsytJebZhcaKjRKEXoSy5T4Dn7_I0PqyaFnbhxOFWE2wTMxuRmA/w512-h640/Sunday%20Inquirer%20-%20Bing5.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div><br /> <p></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-30050811384310132672023-06-29T12:58:00.003+02:002023-06-29T13:03:46.891+02:00Painting the environs around my town<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I've started </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">painting the thing that I love the most about where I live – the landscape. There’s nothing breathtaking about it, nothing like the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland or anywhere in the Farø Islands. The views are typical of the Danish countryside. But there is a “nature park” (</span></span><i style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">naturpark</i><span style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">) where people love to walk, and to one side is a Bronze Age burial mound (ransacked ages ago) which now bears the name of the Fox Hill (</span></span><i style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">rævehøj</i><span style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">) as it was home to generations of foxes for decades, maybe even centuries. There is a marsh, and a deep pond that is called a lake (</span></span><i style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">sø</i><span style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">); in fact there are two more in the same area, and I’m of the impression that these were once peat quarries. That certainly fits with the depth of the pond. There is an 800-year old church, and across the narrow winding road from it, a farmhouse (now publicly owned and the site of parties and meetings) with an intriguing Star of David built into the loft window. There used to be an old mill, and a mill stream, but these have vanished with time. Oh, and in the distance, the control tower of Værløse airport, once a military airport, where the entire fleet of Danish war aircraft was destroyed in a single German attack in World War II. A 10-minute walk from the house is an R&D and manufacturing facility for the pharmaceuticals giant Novo Nordisk. I live in a very storied place, with a beauty that is modest but real.</span></span> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I can’t really escape from my penchant for realism, for painting what is there, what my eyes see, and not what my tormented little soul sees. I love to paint the light, the way a feature of the landscape changes with the seasons. So perhaps it is a kind of impressionism I’m moving towards.
I start with pastel studies, then paint the same scene or subject in oils. Below are a couple of these studies.</span></span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l14oEcxDlNzqIv9ign3nDZyAVckmH5mzsaOtZwjw1-nATV3Ms8cmpOUtTRxnc1cm5vQoyL06nqMOq_9O4CeJBUevQWBzkSM8kIE2ldmEy-CvH2Cf4Nokme8WSE0pDdP_He7ZYqZG9YhTpUP8ImZqyc9EltP5EHjViKW_WJ_pMdSOXMW-HyTZPQ/s2048/Fox%20Hill%20-%20late%20summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1459" data-original-width="2048" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l14oEcxDlNzqIv9ign3nDZyAVckmH5mzsaOtZwjw1-nATV3Ms8cmpOUtTRxnc1cm5vQoyL06nqMOq_9O4CeJBUevQWBzkSM8kIE2ldmEy-CvH2Cf4Nokme8WSE0pDdP_He7ZYqZG9YhTpUP8ImZqyc9EltP5EHjViKW_WJ_pMdSOXMW-HyTZPQ/w400-h285/Fox%20Hill%20-%20late%20summer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1iog9yReiiOyS-UPemI71nnogCZCvfprhy_TrSlUkgQzyxaRmAsJ-z1rJt4su1hlDX9ijFv0V-h7TwJ1W-i7r6dUu2eDd2hRofTMpZ9BfP4qh1N24XfvHP5-Bylk5xJbB0J43BUWGzxyz_jPlSUj1C7RLaXAoVkMv3cFZOlsBmkrE7MBrpLRJw/s2048/Fox%20Hill%20-%20winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="2048" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1iog9yReiiOyS-UPemI71nnogCZCvfprhy_TrSlUkgQzyxaRmAsJ-z1rJt4su1hlDX9ijFv0V-h7TwJ1W-i7r6dUu2eDd2hRofTMpZ9BfP4qh1N24XfvHP5-Bylk5xJbB0J43BUWGzxyz_jPlSUj1C7RLaXAoVkMv3cFZOlsBmkrE7MBrpLRJw/w400-h264/Fox%20Hill%20-%20winter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-48268547768870595952023-05-18T19:17:00.002+02:002023-05-29T14:33:56.032+02:00100 Faces project - Completed!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LVb1TMYAcwxfI_fqnv_EXxysNKmv1rnpHtRPEXOMKX5pZ0GrF-HAOZxXJ311eyejSCqA8I2l67O3z5T0G8GCfB7ybhA0u-6zyo-8Menl08p4fkyQHs2Q2W1ItMDShkQ_W-l39LEdXMALfdD3p_43kXOvJ5UjX6c94GOwUCrMTEUGgw79d-k/s3790/99-Astrid21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3790" data-original-width="2892" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LVb1TMYAcwxfI_fqnv_EXxysNKmv1rnpHtRPEXOMKX5pZ0GrF-HAOZxXJ311eyejSCqA8I2l67O3z5T0G8GCfB7ybhA0u-6zyo-8Menl08p4fkyQHs2Q2W1ItMDShkQ_W-l39LEdXMALfdD3p_43kXOvJ5UjX6c94GOwUCrMTEUGgw79d-k/w305-h400/99-Astrid21.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XQvNPdeyWLBcUm2xXBjsX4dhm7LJE2KYH0rAQqnnzq6uOKvnmM6ACe80lxPuGs9PMahUNXc1U_8eMZ_GTUZgyj7PKAMVN0oCe6HLKbchO3xy8rWWr8tIeS1vUsxyBlnJideCV8bOzb-H1f8s_RVDr63H5_E6bRyeniQp-zk1hmdUeM820sc/s3377/100-Churro.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2392" data-original-width="3377" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XQvNPdeyWLBcUm2xXBjsX4dhm7LJE2KYH0rAQqnnzq6uOKvnmM6ACe80lxPuGs9PMahUNXc1U_8eMZ_GTUZgyj7PKAMVN0oCe6HLKbchO3xy8rWWr8tIeS1vUsxyBlnJideCV8bOzb-H1f8s_RVDr63H5_E6bRyeniQp-zk1hmdUeM820sc/w400-h284/100-Churro.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>And just like that... the 100 Faces project is finished. Face 99 is Astrid, Vagn's 10-year old granddaughter. Face 100 is the beloved family dog Churro, who passed away on June 1 last year -- because pets have faces too. </p><p>I made the deadline, finishing within 300 days of the decision to start the project (July 27, although the drawing that became Face number 1 was actually completed some 3 weeks before). I'm not worried about this, since I drew several other people in the process but decided against including them for various reasons. I'll post the rest of the faces in due time, or make a video or composite image of them all.</p><p>For the most part I'm happy with the faces that I drew. Even the bad ones were part of the learning process. And this isn't the end for me, either. An unfinished drawing of a man playing a double bass sits in one of my sketchbooks, supposedly Face 99 until I realized I wouldn't complete it in time, given the May workload (and an oil portrait commission, yay!). Other projects have already been set -- 100 hands, 100 ears (where I'm weak), 101 dreams, 1000 people 1000 moments. These have no deadline, and are therefore not strict goals: the names form a filing system of sorts. Without a structure for grouping what I produce, my art tends to go unphotographed, or if photographed, then lost among the thousands of images that I take in a given year. </p><p>So I'm done -- 100 Faces in 300 days. Time to celebrate. I think I'll go out into the garden and smell the lilacs. </p><p>Oh, and below are Face no. 1 and 2.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8_j8jq_-OEpgUBwCB-bRPnImmf4oUMMvFbBwd3_TM0maxA6FSRFi7qxBiiOnUs0xk2nIgwfOcxzIObLSl6ThfsT0wSYAGE2X2PRVT_Ba3H5QvlcCNUWRawjcCFOdEtE8J3_1GPTtUGqrH9pjZ9IF-MX2D7TXYPSWW4yamIFlT_cnviNJgYs/s720/1-Brendan%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="521" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8_j8jq_-OEpgUBwCB-bRPnImmf4oUMMvFbBwd3_TM0maxA6FSRFi7qxBiiOnUs0xk2nIgwfOcxzIObLSl6ThfsT0wSYAGE2X2PRVT_Ba3H5QvlcCNUWRawjcCFOdEtE8J3_1GPTtUGqrH9pjZ9IF-MX2D7TXYPSWW4yamIFlT_cnviNJgYs/w290-h400/1-Brendan%20(2).jpg" width="290" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrjjjS77xPX8d5jhM_bW6gF56Ps0ilO-UMOr9KG9ZLWkLvtGnMBLX8x06K4I9wvK_z4X0dqfRyQS6XaCn0bsKJovF7p8IdAsRjk8TkknTOievcwDH9iAR4JV2kYa_uhKT6tgaDjm1KdOk1xN4XFQJTJTd7MfREFRbB1GDEu5QJb08puxK1Xs/s3415/2-Gert%20Plenge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3415" data-original-width="2403" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrjjjS77xPX8d5jhM_bW6gF56Ps0ilO-UMOr9KG9ZLWkLvtGnMBLX8x06K4I9wvK_z4X0dqfRyQS6XaCn0bsKJovF7p8IdAsRjk8TkknTOievcwDH9iAR4JV2kYa_uhKT6tgaDjm1KdOk1xN4XFQJTJTd7MfREFRbB1GDEu5QJb08puxK1Xs/w281-h400/2-Gert%20Plenge.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-12787835402230626172023-05-12T15:10:00.000+02:002023-05-12T22:40:49.833+02:00Martin Luther King, Jr., I Have a Dream<p><i>Why have I reproduced Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I have a dream" speech in full below? Because I'm testing the very odd behavior of some visitors to my blog within the last few months. Bots, no doubt. Hundreds of hits within a day or two after a new post. ChatGPT collecting data? Will they bombard this speech of MLK in the same way they have each post that I carefully wrote? Or recognize the words and leave it alone?</i></p><p><i>If you are human, though, read and ponder.</i></p><p><i><b>Martin Luther King, Jr.</b></i></p><p><b><i>I Have a Dream</i></b></p><p><i>delivered 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.</i></p><p>I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.</p><p>Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.</p><p>But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.</p><p>In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."</p><p>But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.</p><p>We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.</p><p>It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.</p><p>But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.</p><p>The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.</p><p>We cannot walk alone.</p><p>And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.</p><p>We cannot turn back.</p><p>There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. **We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only."** We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."</p><p>I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.</p><p>Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.</p><p>And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.</p><p>I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."</p><p>I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.</p><p>I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.</p><p>I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.</p><p>I have a dream today!</p><p>I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.</p><p>I have a dream today!</p><p>I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."</p><p>This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.</p><p>With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.</p><p>And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:</p><p>My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride, From every mountainside, let freedom ring!</p><p>And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.</p><p>And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.</p><p>Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.</p><p>Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.</p><p>Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.</p><p>Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.</p><p>But not only that:</p><p>Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.</p><p>Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.</p><p>Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.</p><p>From every mountainside, let freedom ring.</p><p>And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:</p><p>Free at last! Free at last!</p><p>Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!</p><p>*** <br />Retrieved from https://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkihaveadream.htm on May 12, 2023. Antedated to May 9.</p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-84141773224324041342023-05-11T23:54:00.001+02:002023-05-12T00:10:10.137+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 10: Dan Keller at 16<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScHn6funno3b_v9b-L7glFlLrltMN8jyVyHwbiSkOejZN6EoX0a7NfK6vtPUh7W3MrqHJWHL59XYY9_o6t93VG0QmCptji0rG5L-6_FYcnmhQ9QijhbrsFewoOcf4328gL1JlveXsaF6JBiAbuMfxk_6lwiLSRgqD7GpX4otfVJ61UwBxNIo/s2623/91-Dan%20Keller%20at%2016%20IMG_5473%20-%20cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2623" data-original-width="2287" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScHn6funno3b_v9b-L7glFlLrltMN8jyVyHwbiSkOejZN6EoX0a7NfK6vtPUh7W3MrqHJWHL59XYY9_o6t93VG0QmCptji0rG5L-6_FYcnmhQ9QijhbrsFewoOcf4328gL1JlveXsaF6JBiAbuMfxk_6lwiLSRgqD7GpX4otfVJ61UwBxNIo/w558-h640/91-Dan%20Keller%20at%2016%20IMG_5473%20-%20cropped.jpg" width="558" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vg2xLf0LmSoCylKha5PngYTH-S69EM6eCcz21uD3h7IVHPs1u7PtOhtvPDXck2a6OxVbzq9CdwDfGOcnULv78vroQyBXeGzulwTtLr4bsWkrjo_oT9TgNOcpJHmhg_A4c6XOo4QtvYnY7DbWCjUQhx2rRLqI1Q3Qffm1FzqGQ-ox03yjoSs/s552/Screenshot%20(3383).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vg2xLf0LmSoCylKha5PngYTH-S69EM6eCcz21uD3h7IVHPs1u7PtOhtvPDXck2a6OxVbzq9CdwDfGOcnULv78vroQyBXeGzulwTtLr4bsWkrjo_oT9TgNOcpJHmhg_A4c6XOo4QtvYnY7DbWCjUQhx2rRLqI1Q3Qffm1FzqGQ-ox03yjoSs/w556-h640/Screenshot%20(3383).png" width="556" /></a></div><div><br /></div>***<div><p>I apologize for the main text being contained in an image, and hope my words are still reader-friendly. I'm trying to deter ChatGPT or similar language-processing bots from hoovering up my words without my consent. More on this soon.</p><p>And my final decision was to leave out most of the hands, since something was wrong with their proportion with the rest of the body. Heck, the challenge was 100 <i><b>Faces </b></i>in 300 days.</p></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-74573790937878889222023-05-08T23:03:00.004+02:002023-05-09T16:09:21.519+02:00100 Faces in 300 Days, part 9: Vagn Plenge<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDr_3Ko1YluRXDB77YgJY0WS9m-5bi73jAYs_Kz-ZZFCYPp9qzScVwcgNDcfexa6Wb7DgsuYdl5pN48qxiFJtZLQDnEp93XnUtDMRi4upb6DS6aWZcATg9gotsqeXNMAYeW2GdVdgPLrToG-mof07eBsVO7Is5nd3Y5lX3J6riRlxFoigNT0/s720/Vagn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="514" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDr_3Ko1YluRXDB77YgJY0WS9m-5bi73jAYs_Kz-ZZFCYPp9qzScVwcgNDcfexa6Wb7DgsuYdl5pN48qxiFJtZLQDnEp93XnUtDMRi4upb6DS6aWZcATg9gotsqeXNMAYeW2GdVdgPLrToG-mof07eBsVO7Is5nd3Y5lX3J6riRlxFoigNT0/w456-h640/Vagn.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GKAOMT1iupBg5RMoVs8LuYUr1GXyDYMp34FdloEZ_22VnsNkH6h0GI6lu17KmYUCauGt6NVe1CFDsRxJeSq3WxE6Z8N4IVJMy7EFeBtpGhLu6sbXrT6trERLB_Uab9vaoNhmMUp4AMX7wRf4VhnJ306v_B4Hp7zVcIs8ZnZEgZVuIUZ2Zzs/s612/Screenshot%20(3380).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GKAOMT1iupBg5RMoVs8LuYUr1GXyDYMp34FdloEZ_22VnsNkH6h0GI6lu17KmYUCauGt6NVe1CFDsRxJeSq3WxE6Z8N4IVJMy7EFeBtpGhLu6sbXrT6trERLB_Uab9vaoNhmMUp4AMX7wRf4VhnJ306v_B4Hp7zVcIs8ZnZEgZVuIUZ2Zzs/s16000/Screenshot%20(3380).png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-20926229350977818892023-05-02T00:23:00.002+02:002023-05-10T10:05:12.362+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, Part 8: Drowning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RmnwgtsQQLLch4sLGDAS7Z44_tE7o6hbyTOfy0XrNmJ6NQnGBgN7qLVix4UCeSgplW5TUcRwkgD941f-ivNiGKGvU-IeDZ_UWkYnpmJ5INoiM9WRXs_C86vWN6d6EG7SqeZnGQGlnfOO6ko7_ocmKNMudsd0Xr3wSvUvgSYZaGabj8CRfFI/s2048/drowning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1708" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RmnwgtsQQLLch4sLGDAS7Z44_tE7o6hbyTOfy0XrNmJ6NQnGBgN7qLVix4UCeSgplW5TUcRwkgD941f-ivNiGKGvU-IeDZ_UWkYnpmJ5INoiM9WRXs_C86vWN6d6EG7SqeZnGQGlnfOO6ko7_ocmKNMudsd0Xr3wSvUvgSYZaGabj8CRfFI/w534-h640/drowning.jpg" width="534" /></a></div><br /><p>A self-portrait from a photo taken when I was 17. It was a bad photo, slightly blurred, full-face, hair on either side of my face (parted bangs, short in front and long in back -- very 80s). Very much the photo of a landlubber.</p><p>This drawing, though, is a nod to the two times in my life I nearly drowned. The first, when I was seven, a quiet struggling right beyond the wave line. I could hear my extended family on the shore saying, "Look, it looks like (someone) is having trouble." (In Cebuano, a sentence like this does not need a subject). Then my grandmother waded in and fished me out.</p><p>The second time was on a beach in Zambales, in my 30s. Struggling silently against a wicked undertow. Unable to call for help. Then, the intervention of a brawny Filipino-American filmmaker, Michael, with whom we were swimming. He grasped me by the collar of my shirt (I had not brought a swimsuit) and hauled me unceremoniously onto the rock ledge.</p><p>Here I'm sinking, unable to speak, but seeing everything with perfect clarity.</p><p>***</p><p>Panpastels and charcoal.</p><p>100 Faces in 300 days. 95/100</p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-81788422226191210892023-04-23T14:14:00.002+02:002023-04-23T14:14:47.022+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 7: Four girls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tCHcaEbrCehEni-sREejW-Te5VBXY1mBTcaNTx0B8vRSatPWqpvJYBbYQjy9YPDbMwNxa2BYUXfcUDJ4ijGjtzFxdVk7PjAhOhkGwqS_7miA7Vhen_EcR7X5D7vbSnZzlFtBIkiw9ljjRkdEmxvlNjBbPnbLVJ1DNZ1egsQmfSJmn-3Efg8/s1350/Bing-SM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tCHcaEbrCehEni-sREejW-Te5VBXY1mBTcaNTx0B8vRSatPWqpvJYBbYQjy9YPDbMwNxa2BYUXfcUDJ4ijGjtzFxdVk7PjAhOhkGwqS_7miA7Vhen_EcR7X5D7vbSnZzlFtBIkiw9ljjRkdEmxvlNjBbPnbLVJ1DNZ1egsQmfSJmn-3Efg8/w320-h400/Bing-SM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I've switched to charcoal -- not pencil, but the sticks you break into stubs and hold between thumb and two fingers. Very nice, very tactile. Blended with a finger. </p><p>The first drawing below this text is of Laumi, one of my best friends in high school. Reference was taken at our HS graduation in 1985. Where are you now? We are all looking for you.</p><p>Second is Melanie, one of my all-time besties. The reference photo was blurred -- I know I have more pictures of Melanie from our childhood/early adolescence, but darn it, I can't find them. I need to digitize. I didn't get the pretty bump on the bridge of her nose. Sigh.</p><p>Third is Karen, another classmate, from her own reference, which may have been taken in 1988 or 89, from the hairstyle and clothes. The thing with charcoal is that it can resemble those made-to-order mall-art drawings, especially if the person in your reference was shot in a formal studio pose.</p><p>The girl with the bangs at the top of the page is me. Lakambini Sitoy, aka Bing. At my high school graduation, the same shot that Laumi appears in. I sleep-walked through the event, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt afterwards. You can't tell -- I look very happy, very pretty, in all the pictures. I was quite nice-looking, back in the day. Youth wasted on the young, maybe. Or just a girl struggling very hard to keep her head above water and make it look effortless, in which case I was the victor. </p><p>I don't think these drawings are exact likenesses. They do resemble the people they are supposed to be, though. I still have a tendency to make faces slightly longer and/or narrower. As a result, Asian or Latin American faces look more European. Never mind. Draw and learn. Besides, if my face looks prettier than it actually was, I can always claim it's not a portrait of me but of imaginary Bing, my double self, though in 1985, she was not just on the way out, but already consigned to a box beneath my bed, abandoned (still trying to decide between boyfriends) as I learned to navigate the real world. </p><p><i>100 Faces in 300 Days, Faces 85-88, 90.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWoZeQWr0NkzGTZWMKtzPTwq4Z8Kjna-_7ZO0n7kDbyBCsKJz3q9E2slfPR5Xl4YAx_Eo5wKnCyhluUiNmygh5X927HLlGlHXU7dXfkPlZn4hhx9UA8gcoJ9xJuxebQLZ3HrVkCfZLNcav-dDj0IZgPgFJSBoE7FpVqNWa5I4ZYAV94l2uN0/s1350/Laumi-sm%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWoZeQWr0NkzGTZWMKtzPTwq4Z8Kjna-_7ZO0n7kDbyBCsKJz3q9E2slfPR5Xl4YAx_Eo5wKnCyhluUiNmygh5X927HLlGlHXU7dXfkPlZn4hhx9UA8gcoJ9xJuxebQLZ3HrVkCfZLNcav-dDj0IZgPgFJSBoE7FpVqNWa5I4ZYAV94l2uN0/w320-h400/Laumi-sm%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBgxYLkvu514GTAjZgFKcbODzDWuHKWkc7L2W7JUeqVbfwrfOrPHfk1WfAiVricZovFmTzygMD5W-5452JhgY5bhEziZL46LnWqlkif6ZJMIs1YWhfVA0SZzNTKjsRnffkmHPS8j02HMTMukgve73-mZTY_nCp1T0KJs7htEh7EXs7zIuKzA/s1350/Melanie-sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBgxYLkvu514GTAjZgFKcbODzDWuHKWkc7L2W7JUeqVbfwrfOrPHfk1WfAiVricZovFmTzygMD5W-5452JhgY5bhEziZL46LnWqlkif6ZJMIs1YWhfVA0SZzNTKjsRnffkmHPS8j02HMTMukgve73-mZTY_nCp1T0KJs7htEh7EXs7zIuKzA/w320-h400/Melanie-sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbueNHyP8MitqN8lakaIeX07VxhLPxE4r5y0yZmxKtc4pLy6D3thPROFH7Fz4fmpO-MivTCU_p8vyfBvBh10ILtmzVdjblV0FN1W5baNP5OjDPHYfjI7IahzclKsRjrM6bX3Shcc7e2mZu17mDEk095lGIF6rJL8vGCX7sNLhZYHK7hn3Af1E/s1350/Karen-SM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbueNHyP8MitqN8lakaIeX07VxhLPxE4r5y0yZmxKtc4pLy6D3thPROFH7Fz4fmpO-MivTCU_p8vyfBvBh10ILtmzVdjblV0FN1W5baNP5OjDPHYfjI7IahzclKsRjrM6bX3Shcc7e2mZu17mDEk095lGIF6rJL8vGCX7sNLhZYHK7hn3Af1E/w320-h400/Karen-SM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-1585741220783139042023-04-19T00:07:00.004+02:002023-04-20T01:23:27.526+02:00Leilani Sitoy (April 19, 1966 - November 18, 2007)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HYpSDjxYyN3tUtO9kWNWUTpwmBxFjG_RGC1eXuSra8ztQorH5EB3UiQbxknWrCAkvXY4u_3tKR8PxDSKDZmZBFOzFDnv8mc7zvRHegKD_m58BT3_WrLZbOuLOqgoKbg0j8HD56fu3JQB9xXzXEykgbe_qQwgsm-h5vfgNsI5wCgO-tJMr-M/s978/LANI.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="978" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HYpSDjxYyN3tUtO9kWNWUTpwmBxFjG_RGC1eXuSra8ztQorH5EB3UiQbxknWrCAkvXY4u_3tKR8PxDSKDZmZBFOzFDnv8mc7zvRHegKD_m58BT3_WrLZbOuLOqgoKbg0j8HD56fu3JQB9xXzXEykgbe_qQwgsm-h5vfgNsI5wCgO-tJMr-M/w400-h274/LANI.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My sister Leilani (April 19, 1966 - November 18, 2007).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 20, a new B.S. Psychology graduate, she
had it all figured out. Her little orange typewriter, the carefree smile, the
movie star pose, the hand-lettered desk signs that read “Smoking Area” and “Silence:
Writer at Work.” Her red t-shirt says “I’m an alcoholic. In case of emergency,
give me a beer.” Her name in cut-out letters (hand-made as well) on the shelf
behind her, and a Menudo collage by the window. Her little Post-its, her colored
markers and her lighter carefully arranged before the typewriter. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The words on the large cowrie shell read “Golf Club.” These were
her new barkada, her new friends; they liked to hang out at our house happily
drinking. “Golf” was for “golf-golf-golf,” i.e. “gulp, gulp, gulp” which can
sometimes sound like the same word in the Philippines. A few weeks before, she
had taken a treasured photo album with the name of her old barkada, her group,
on the front, stuffed the photos into an envelope, and replaced them with
pictures of these new friends. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She left to take a master’s degree at the Ateneo de Manila the
following semester. Manila – the sudden absence of community support, the
different culture of that Catholic university, the urban fashions and the disquieting
coexistence of extreme wealth with extreme poverty -- changed her. As these
things go.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our best and closest years were when we were young. Not young-young,
but young teenagers, starting from when I was about 10 and she 13, up to when I
was 15 and she 18. We had the fantasy world that I have written about previously.
She had her imaginary boyfriend, and I had mine – in fact, she had tremendous
influence on whom I chose to be with in there. Of course, in this alternate
universe we were both exceedingly beautiful and irresistible, as were all the
other girls who populated it (no female bullying, no nasty put-downs). We were not
sisters, but distant cousins – I think I must have been an embarrassment for
her, with my glasses and my awkwardness and my bad Cebuano. And incidentally, we
were war orphans, because in a fantasy world, parents tend to complicate
things. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We developed this world through stories and pictures. When
people interview me about my published work and influences, they always ask, “Who
is your father? What is his occupation?” Rarely, “Who are your parents? Who is
your mother?” and never “Do you have any siblings?” They probably think I
formed my worldview reading the Bible and Dickens at my father’s knee. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My sister never got a chance to get interviewed for her
published work, because she stopped writing fiction in her junior year at college,
at around the time she began to work seriously on her grades. She ultimately
graduated Magna Cum Laude at Silliman University. As far as I know, up to the
time of her death she never wrote fiction again, although when I was a lifestyle
editor around 1997, I pestered her to write a few pieces for my page. She
complied, and the work was (of course) brilliant and funny. My editor asked for
more, but Lani declined; the first baby had come; she had no time. If she drew
at all, it was chubby, pleasant little cartoons of her co-workers, for
birthdays and such. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We fell out, actually, nearly overnight when I was 15, and
really did not reconcile until a few weeks before she died, which is a weird thought,
considering there are studio photographs of our grinning selves, and me and her
daughters playing. But our relationship was fraught. (Come to think of it, the
only boyfriend of mine she’d really approved of was “Paolo”, and he was a jointly
created fantasy in the aftermath of a movie we’d seen. When I fell in love with
another movie boy but wanted to string “Paolo” along, she wrote a short novel
about a man-made plague that killed off the new boy AND the entire world including
herself, leaving “Paolo” and my character along with two or three others,
presumably with the task of repopulating the earth). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So why am I remembering this now, why am I writing this now?
Especially since it is not the hagiography we are expected to write of a loved
one who has died? Because I cannot find her anywhere but within my memories and
a sad boxful of notebooks at the bottom of a closet. She died before Facebook,
before Pinterest. When I Google her name, the only things that come up are the brief
tributes I posted shortly after she left.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHL3HqkpgrRiog_gGC4wQVurQlZtLXPlyYAqebp0nRvek954y0OQiELU4O0evzWyRsOhFjyG_YV1dG3KDG4tI8Mq8G7egQP2tZ3qwCjrq5aoRHiji-onWU1JKUrsRfMZy-iLr8isOBeprkNuTsqFkZ_9lDPl9nb9a9yVsD3sY9ITD2SdC8r0/s846/Lani%20and%20Bing%201996.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="846" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHL3HqkpgrRiog_gGC4wQVurQlZtLXPlyYAqebp0nRvek954y0OQiELU4O0evzWyRsOhFjyG_YV1dG3KDG4tI8Mq8G7egQP2tZ3qwCjrq5aoRHiji-onWU1JKUrsRfMZy-iLr8isOBeprkNuTsqFkZ_9lDPl9nb9a9yVsD3sY9ITD2SdC8r0/w400-h275/Lani%20and%20Bing%201996.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lani (right) and Bing, 1996<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlQ_LQuye3on9Pa4oku-HrYAOzcuRTUwzryLG_G1bbfuZugG5IXie9ao4Oio65p3zePda3cyAg1ccX62ENgH3VvqqdgYZc00h6GRiB5jnG0e42B7XYEqUcwy5VIZIGQxNv-lzAXMW51JHBCMX04HuXEWlC7mvUay_xXucZpbJ3-OtqhYCdHw/s3940/20230212_051440%20ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2787" data-original-width="3940" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlQ_LQuye3on9Pa4oku-HrYAOzcuRTUwzryLG_G1bbfuZugG5IXie9ao4Oio65p3zePda3cyAg1ccX62ENgH3VvqqdgYZc00h6GRiB5jnG0e42B7XYEqUcwy5VIZIGQxNv-lzAXMW51JHBCMX04HuXEWlC7mvUay_xXucZpbJ3-OtqhYCdHw/w400-h283/20230212_051440%20ed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With our mom, 1979</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjv8v1wWyEmrICmAqdc0wAK1B0Mm1OO-2NjoltDWgsl30ZwmMxPzpeadWMLBBOO4D9F356YD-NuLN5vAqND2tpXPNo-_NlvGhQufF7hpBKrD4SfBRVTFU9ty6AP3Mb9qBinludYcQbLZwOeEL-JMu_Qrpv0Pci9l_DX6-9c78uV8WZ6yU5XU/s843/72565218_669808356875880_7288458762854072320_n_669808346875881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="843" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjv8v1wWyEmrICmAqdc0wAK1B0Mm1OO-2NjoltDWgsl30ZwmMxPzpeadWMLBBOO4D9F356YD-NuLN5vAqND2tpXPNo-_NlvGhQufF7hpBKrD4SfBRVTFU9ty6AP3Mb9qBinludYcQbLZwOeEL-JMu_Qrpv0Pci9l_DX6-9c78uV8WZ6yU5XU/w400-h381/72565218_669808356875880_7288458762854072320_n_669808346875881.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 1969</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjv8v1wWyEmrICmAqdc0wAK1B0Mm1OO-2NjoltDWgsl30ZwmMxPzpeadWMLBBOO4D9F356YD-NuLN5vAqND2tpXPNo-_NlvGhQufF7hpBKrD4SfBRVTFU9ty6AP3Mb9qBinludYcQbLZwOeEL-JMu_Qrpv0Pci9l_DX6-9c78uV8WZ6yU5XU/s843/72565218_669808356875880_7288458762854072320_n_669808346875881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-sBvwYwfuuUxDDT12e_EqXQr0LOavtMdXV_PI0wOVQFBT6EGORs7L61frjlejEyONJ05MF0XnECBZigTbLrpGgIEUxe_7mF4GXuu0S4Ji2JllFrVidiX4CoDdyV6McfO8lbHiY41tn-GzChkWo4oLh40JXKAQOTzoAKif0hq9AA-zY45yzo/s1141/72345571_2611701298851462_3647742353290035200_n_2601789133383354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="843" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-sBvwYwfuuUxDDT12e_EqXQr0LOavtMdXV_PI0wOVQFBT6EGORs7L61frjlejEyONJ05MF0XnECBZigTbLrpGgIEUxe_7mF4GXuu0S4Ji2JllFrVidiX4CoDdyV6McfO8lbHiY41tn-GzChkWo4oLh40JXKAQOTzoAKif0hq9AA-zY45yzo/w295-h400/72345571_2611701298851462_3647742353290035200_n_2601789133383354.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1970</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-19696084167927537982023-04-14T21:30:00.005+02:002023-04-16T09:48:23.299+02:00Tween misery<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7f0sLG_er_wQRf0ABPtxhkUb4n9E9-3xfb5iE3tm7dH4q52gGtyIyfUJvBuR7W7axejJbCIakb5yNQkJrj1u02r8T2HNbV5aDBdA2QMxIVU3KbKa_pcIrV2pur1UXhsDANPKXpliCJTWn5exQEHtKni1NnuHSh6lywIUyARwBdoemZ9sMdxw/s2592/IMG_9011%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7f0sLG_er_wQRf0ABPtxhkUb4n9E9-3xfb5iE3tm7dH4q52gGtyIyfUJvBuR7W7axejJbCIakb5yNQkJrj1u02r8T2HNbV5aDBdA2QMxIVU3KbKa_pcIrV2pur1UXhsDANPKXpliCJTWn5exQEHtKni1NnuHSh6lywIUyARwBdoemZ9sMdxw/w400-h300/IMG_9011%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>T. Valentino Jr, Rondeletia, Lakambini and Leilani Sitoy<br />(aka Bill, Pinkie, Bing and Lani)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Too good not to share.</p><p>Me with my family around the first quarter of 1982. I would have been 12 going on 13. My sister is all dressed up, probably for some end-of-the-year event for high school seniors (in the Philippines until a few years ago, these were 15 or 16 years of age).</p><p>What the hell was going through my head? Had someone yelled at me? Was I practicing my Italian war orphan stare? Was I wishing a crushie-boy would yank me by the arm and whisk me into a realm of endless summer and heavy firearms and little kisses? I was a shy and eyeglasses-wearing teen with a secret imaginative life and with no social skills to speak of, not even – and this photo proves it – in the bosom of my own family.</p><p>I was such a pathetic kid (always in the top three in my class) that, when a far more popular classmate asked me to write in her slam book, I acquiesced at once (albeit with a bit of a sneer). There were a couple of blanks labelled “Favorite Artist.” At last, I thought, a kindred spirit -- who would've known? So I wrote “Edgar Degas” and “Pierre-Auguste Renoir.” Too late I realized, leafing through the other entries and coming upon names like “Gabby Concepcion” and “Dina Bonnevie”, that “artist” was a direct translation of <i>artista</i>: “actor/actress.”</p><div>Less than a year before, I had stood up onstage at my grade school graduation and, before a packed auditorium, delivered a memorized speech full of grand ideas that my father had written. I was elementary school valedictorian. At the same time that I was committing that speech to memory, I was writing a loooong story, called “Raid on Rio Nova”, directly on a typewriter that was missing an “n” (a reject of my dad's). It was an adventure story filled with blood, guts and explosions featuring the boys of <i>Hornet’s Nest</i> and a stable of gorgeous girls loosely based on myself, my sister and some kids we had known but no longer hung out with.</div><p>A few weeks prior to this picture being taken, in a notebook I’d marked “Big Christmas Edition”, I’d written a story that was a shameless (or shameful) rip-off of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Darlings" target="_blank"><i>Little Darlings</i>,</a> gender-reversed, in which the lead character, Paolo, nearly loses his virginity (on a dare) to a beautiful girl with straight black hair called Bing. They both end up weeping and saying “No! It would ruin everything!” I suppose it proves that as a sexual enchantress I met with zero success – not even in the bosom of my own imagination.</p><p>But some years after, I got contact lenses and learned to smile and to wear crop-tops and flip my hair, and above all to play wide-eyed and somewhat dumb. Things got marginally better. 😉</p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-85935367971739014262023-04-10T15:06:00.017+02:002023-04-11T21:07:15.788+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 6: one person (Dan Keller)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVORUUPKCA8e-osHIF455nID2QToYE0aVjKQe14KQsw7doNxeownhMKvHGzvbi8fC0s5ie37UXUr9rbUO_Jt2lGmj1S-Gjz5NJOnhEOg-bONCr11qky88AFPBA66hu5WSYzkIsH0ZiYjkOCbp02TaxgftBNzGEzvHzB3EwTSZR46rT5pjN7fw/s3349/64-Dan%20Keller%20in%20Hawaii-20112.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3349" data-original-width="2366" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVORUUPKCA8e-osHIF455nID2QToYE0aVjKQe14KQsw7doNxeownhMKvHGzvbi8fC0s5ie37UXUr9rbUO_Jt2lGmj1S-Gjz5NJOnhEOg-bONCr11qky88AFPBA66hu5WSYzkIsH0ZiYjkOCbp02TaxgftBNzGEzvHzB3EwTSZR46rT5pjN7fw/w283-h400/64-Dan%20Keller%20in%20Hawaii-20112.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>These are all drawings of Dan Keller at various ages. And I don't think I'm done yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've moved from random strangers seen on holiday to people I know or have communicated with -- newer friends and those from way back. This happened after I'd drawn 59 faces and was feeling a bit more confident about my skills. I started with self-portraits and then did the picture of Dan that you see above, taken in 2011 in Hawaii and found on his website: <a href="http://www.dan-keller.com" target="_blank">www.dan-keller.com</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjtGefhYea8Zg4Q498iMypIFShPtWLpOXjgmYL0fqqNp0oNyPUGMEsYAxrVbFMXoDmuq-4AXip-NXtJVPDnRpxg85UNmZAC4G_V9UyrYe8DhLEUYbTj-lofwOFzTvvMP32ukwP3vdPzQJgAc_wBsudlabBIf0Vc0u6IbCyFcYSPIFD68apAI/s2685/20230410_150346.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2685" data-original-width="2452" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjtGefhYea8Zg4Q498iMypIFShPtWLpOXjgmYL0fqqNp0oNyPUGMEsYAxrVbFMXoDmuq-4AXip-NXtJVPDnRpxg85UNmZAC4G_V9UyrYe8DhLEUYbTj-lofwOFzTvvMP32ukwP3vdPzQJgAc_wBsudlabBIf0Vc0u6IbCyFcYSPIFD68apAI/s320/20230410_150346.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Work in progress. From a 1970 photo on his website.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Dan is the Daniel Keller of Hornet's Nest (Il Vespaio), so that could be what is at the root of my fascination with him, the fantasy boy of my sixth/seventh-grade self. But it is more nuanced than that. I will ponder. I will articulate the results of said pondering. Soon.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKDtUWNsWNoVXDOpPu9v1RrW2fKIDUUjYXb9WY2vMp5s9crDfOSHKmk3bbF2i4ihM6uAt77hjymF-DQAWyOr-dnGryX5B_Wrk8W4qJwoK9RhOFcBnc9Kfgh1L_xIVRk4cVg8ZAgNde_Q1a0FIGIdQfrZOsOJ8EkjHglbwaBV8xTthChZ_rI0/s3507/77-Dan%20Keller%20-%20Dark%20Paolo%20-%20il%20Vespaio-scanned.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKDtUWNsWNoVXDOpPu9v1RrW2fKIDUUjYXb9WY2vMp5s9crDfOSHKmk3bbF2i4ihM6uAt77hjymF-DQAWyOr-dnGryX5B_Wrk8W4qJwoK9RhOFcBnc9Kfgh1L_xIVRk4cVg8ZAgNde_Q1a0FIGIdQfrZOsOJ8EkjHglbwaBV8xTthChZ_rI0/w283-h400/77-Dan%20Keller%20-%20Dark%20Paolo%20-%20il%20Vespaio-scanned.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_8pz5602YbuLF-Tl79kKtjU19oLdu1qY1dIelAq9v9n5lGQnhwJomzfWx_4_zXcsitSCanX1DejO0WHAjBLQP0aBNSq7_6g2Ebz4bDPcSoEDEK3EFoxhtgPcwbdzjVutZtlfYTdtzEeSWn_6WjbNjVn6lX-3yQ3jGIgfMvO_2xLp2g-e-E0/s2631/20230312_140136.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2631" data-original-width="2134" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_8pz5602YbuLF-Tl79kKtjU19oLdu1qY1dIelAq9v9n5lGQnhwJomzfWx_4_zXcsitSCanX1DejO0WHAjBLQP0aBNSq7_6g2Ebz4bDPcSoEDEK3EFoxhtgPcwbdzjVutZtlfYTdtzEeSWn_6WjbNjVn6lX-3yQ3jGIgfMvO_2xLp2g-e-E0/w325-h400/20230312_140136.jpg" width="325" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i> </i><i>Above: As Tekko in Hornet's Nest, 1970 (Il Vespaio). </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Filmed in 1969.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFx61r8mRoqbvmTCw2bzJ9PL2QsPMYMO8vJ2BWXJXGBG8qiyX35g6orA7HiBhIHYL__nqWETDjl-AYIZSnkwjGW8De4PS3_IhRVfKEr5AHdmXCmLX5v5MfLEwVODvakUjFqDuPcL5ZHA_Ntuw8QnctdPZuqyMSuf_JZ-23ZxYsZCYpNIyNOQk/s3507/74-Dan%20Keller%201972.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFx61r8mRoqbvmTCw2bzJ9PL2QsPMYMO8vJ2BWXJXGBG8qiyX35g6orA7HiBhIHYL__nqWETDjl-AYIZSnkwjGW8De4PS3_IhRVfKEr5AHdmXCmLX5v5MfLEwVODvakUjFqDuPcL5ZHA_Ntuw8QnctdPZuqyMSuf_JZ-23ZxYsZCYpNIyNOQk/w283-h400/74-Dan%20Keller%201972.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>1972</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-1446673237103905082023-04-10T10:04:00.007+02:002023-04-10T15:28:38.076+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 5: family resemblance<p>I thought a bit of families and family resemblance in the Easter week. These drawings are of my sister Leilani (1966-2007), her daughters Sofia and Bea, and my stunning cousin Carolyn. The men are my husband Vagn's sons. (Faces 80, 79, 70, 82, 68 and 2 of the 100 Faces project.)</p><p>Getting a likeness is incredibly exciting (and also quite demanding). Building up someone's face through pencil strokes (tentative and experimental ones) is also an extremely intimate and personal process. It is as if one were touching a person's mouth, their teeth, their eyes -- what human beings use to see, eat, plead, stare each other down, etc. It was actually on account of this (the feeling that I was intruding on a person's space) that I started drawing strangers: an effort to desensitize myself, not get excited, keep a cool distance from their humanity. But then it became time to find out whether I could still maintain that objectivity while drawing someone that I knew.</p><div>With the shift to subjects I knew -- or more correctly, subjects who would know that I had painted them -- the notion of accountability was there. I would have to work harder than I already did.</div><div><br />In drawing freehand, so to speak, without guidelines or grids, a dialogue begins between me, the artist (the viewer and capturer) and the image -- though not necessarily with the person himself. A commitment is forged in the hour or two that it takes: a pledge to be as faithful as possible to what I see, out of respect for the subject. A promise to put my ego aside (the part of me that says, "I am the artist and this is you -- deal with it!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes the end product merely reflects the moment that I stopped erasing and redrawing, thus letting myself off the hook and declaring the picture finished.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJFMdpWKfsTyuKdRCy3Ewx_SDffs3RqhiUIyBK64iFUQ_clWhbWktXLwIoYLhVzADlJFh5IERUSIFY6ecvE8icsPi7r51OW7bjL6VpgUcWnioVC1fYovNqdN9NDeylPZZahXHqdauxxmOpX32aZPbuWbqUKmyIvMBU13YlBKt0XZ1b94IpRo/s3247/80-Lani%201973.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3247" data-original-width="2338" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJFMdpWKfsTyuKdRCy3Ewx_SDffs3RqhiUIyBK64iFUQ_clWhbWktXLwIoYLhVzADlJFh5IERUSIFY6ecvE8icsPi7r51OW7bjL6VpgUcWnioVC1fYovNqdN9NDeylPZZahXHqdauxxmOpX32aZPbuWbqUKmyIvMBU13YlBKt0XZ1b94IpRo/w288-h400/80-Lani%201973.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zEfkm8DgMuof-vUHB426lEgJXPVwQakPX0wMm3P6V0UL5HscNf_jvvQcpL-zEZ0rOCmmmE0dbRJe4ZMy2X5coiEN1IYRaYHSaCeDnn4vUjVS3UBF5JNMUJfgj2vNtT0XIgkzYWv2k_DNW9ZytZMr0OrlJpV5NebfHgUtjrai3O5tD1GjDNs/s3376/79-Sofia%20at%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3376" data-original-width="2398" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zEfkm8DgMuof-vUHB426lEgJXPVwQakPX0wMm3P6V0UL5HscNf_jvvQcpL-zEZ0rOCmmmE0dbRJe4ZMy2X5coiEN1IYRaYHSaCeDnn4vUjVS3UBF5JNMUJfgj2vNtT0XIgkzYWv2k_DNW9ZytZMr0OrlJpV5NebfHgUtjrai3O5tD1GjDNs/w284-h400/79-Sofia%20at%206.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiltmA4ze1Rpm_qL6BeRxNEo8bR-kfqCDDF4QPk7-HTt8xyn-e-iA1cyarRfu2sgtQmtGNmqEKmUDUrnFwm3RoYfm-Z9v8YBi_6ElJKYnKhTt_tSCL217yaMfmkL5-bKTo_cunjINYt43fhjmym52OONJzeNMs6aaGF4P_jerqnHVs1u81O__0/s3319/82-Bea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3319" data-original-width="2423" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiltmA4ze1Rpm_qL6BeRxNEo8bR-kfqCDDF4QPk7-HTt8xyn-e-iA1cyarRfu2sgtQmtGNmqEKmUDUrnFwm3RoYfm-Z9v8YBi_6ElJKYnKhTt_tSCL217yaMfmkL5-bKTo_cunjINYt43fhjmym52OONJzeNMs6aaGF4P_jerqnHVs1u81O__0/w293-h400/82-Bea.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwnisR4AGZl-TpIlW41d-g2HM-QxIzwqIClk3KbvlOtJAkRJVP8IKnbeSzP_8YWN0YMmz5apQNkWjRYCJcWkZ_J_d445xt6rDOUAD6Qavl0yPr84mjMKNwZem-UZz53Kby_rzVEX82-pQK9beRViwbk2jaRdppcOlYE6hXTXso0h2U1cdclo/s3507/76-Lani%201972.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwnisR4AGZl-TpIlW41d-g2HM-QxIzwqIClk3KbvlOtJAkRJVP8IKnbeSzP_8YWN0YMmz5apQNkWjRYCJcWkZ_J_d445xt6rDOUAD6Qavl0yPr84mjMKNwZem-UZz53Kby_rzVEX82-pQK9beRViwbk2jaRdppcOlYE6hXTXso0h2U1cdclo/w283-h400/76-Lani%201972.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEuD7HSIrRl7LRQp249a4RznzhedurdK_vNG_c7YhsLOe4Dqr2MFA4_HkTAgBgjh9vqjfOyC8OhuEAGeoMZ71mH4NZCdY-ahR83JL4p4OBRKiybhoEz9qMXKGOggY3_86i6j-h9nZTXkuHMFSwZzlogngSFYNtCgGPuqXi2HxNSFJKjOmOAk/s3119/70-Carolyn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3119" data-original-width="2308" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEuD7HSIrRl7LRQp249a4RznzhedurdK_vNG_c7YhsLOe4Dqr2MFA4_HkTAgBgjh9vqjfOyC8OhuEAGeoMZ71mH4NZCdY-ahR83JL4p4OBRKiybhoEz9qMXKGOggY3_86i6j-h9nZTXkuHMFSwZzlogngSFYNtCgGPuqXi2HxNSFJKjOmOAk/w296-h400/70-Carolyn.jpg" width="296" /></a></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDGDUWjXiqOQaTxWah-OGxVZCqLs1ugt_z_bKVd3UxFNUJgYgGZcABGJa7fkbMfKzXH2d1mDIaMfruPxXCMLIA4a6WlT8zsKKGITrBgRHaheGQwV2qTz4u3eGJLXop3qn-X11Oz4fRtzAEOxPWNmANy59j0E5uYY5qIO9M5qAOq_oMoINA7c/s2565/68-Jan%20Plenge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2565" data-original-width="1916" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDGDUWjXiqOQaTxWah-OGxVZCqLs1ugt_z_bKVd3UxFNUJgYgGZcABGJa7fkbMfKzXH2d1mDIaMfruPxXCMLIA4a6WlT8zsKKGITrBgRHaheGQwV2qTz4u3eGJLXop3qn-X11Oz4fRtzAEOxPWNmANy59j0E5uYY5qIO9M5qAOq_oMoINA7c/w299-h400/68-Jan%20Plenge.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mR2zC2-TSBMoBpJbDsnnHPuGt290CzwsTMQFUJm2EOLB0zjnEV46a9n6KjXv2IoyDWY6-hAQ9RiRAJ0oJSpUbttQq-AuNLeUpPpNhXLRC07Sdg1BkNKd0a88BuO_Dbb1kYEvDtPHJntTM89RU8N7nYsz4RzOshQI0aQLDAegAhjNgsJUItY/s3415/2-Gert%20Plenge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3415" data-original-width="2403" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mR2zC2-TSBMoBpJbDsnnHPuGt290CzwsTMQFUJm2EOLB0zjnEV46a9n6KjXv2IoyDWY6-hAQ9RiRAJ0oJSpUbttQq-AuNLeUpPpNhXLRC07Sdg1BkNKd0a88BuO_Dbb1kYEvDtPHJntTM89RU8N7nYsz4RzOshQI0aQLDAegAhjNgsJUItY/w281-h400/2-Gert%20Plenge.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-41624516850886540992023-04-10T09:10:00.005+02:002023-04-11T21:08:25.483+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 4: People who encouraged me<p>100 Faces in 300 days: People who've been supportive of both my writing and my art over the years. My former boss and the closest I had to a work mentor, journalist Inday Espina-Varona; Filipino-Canadian poet Albert B. Casuga and Danish-Filipino journalist and NGO organizer Filomenita Mongaya Hoegsholm. Faces 78, 75, 81 and 67 of the project.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJiYeLQ0oVJbQ5qi7XSGvfUgmdCvcgzxlCQYsqqGJl_5eiBrQTsekUhtPHGvFR4qjkmKRMeXGruLM0tVw5ZtFkDx7683bLyhLAtrVtX_D3-VYf6Hba6AgohN-bRC7XToEQh_dPsSEoUjNEC_Hg3D6MBcmo3vHJNDuuGcR1VcnMC5fnGcMycY/s3507/78-Inday%20Espina%20Varona.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJiYeLQ0oVJbQ5qi7XSGvfUgmdCvcgzxlCQYsqqGJl_5eiBrQTsekUhtPHGvFR4qjkmKRMeXGruLM0tVw5ZtFkDx7683bLyhLAtrVtX_D3-VYf6Hba6AgohN-bRC7XToEQh_dPsSEoUjNEC_Hg3D6MBcmo3vHJNDuuGcR1VcnMC5fnGcMycY/w283-h400/78-Inday%20Espina%20Varona.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7gmj0FCeKP5GyB3YEU21n9_gXRyLoGm_Z7XGJsGGIFfq3DELIstOg-9xnSja0x7ae2zYGRAFOJqLwC0WXMqDSw9b1UdiWlwcqZLixyH5aDwrwh5cEup2b-3HiZvmBxcNZkuBt4DXcEbx6oh-X6be5kgW4mOii8vJ1bir-IA6ZNgoPRw23J4/s3252/67-Inday%20listening.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3252" data-original-width="2299" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7gmj0FCeKP5GyB3YEU21n9_gXRyLoGm_Z7XGJsGGIFfq3DELIstOg-9xnSja0x7ae2zYGRAFOJqLwC0WXMqDSw9b1UdiWlwcqZLixyH5aDwrwh5cEup2b-3HiZvmBxcNZkuBt4DXcEbx6oh-X6be5kgW4mOii8vJ1bir-IA6ZNgoPRw23J4/w283-h400/67-Inday%20listening.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tuAbaH1yNTBX_1_ULTmTU55a0MARYDYa0V6bsw2kOOBqlGbGMtmfeoKuvFyXxT2qhkNz8UUx4FednUNuj94yl5sUT22zUfrB4GwgVPfDPEmLIAryF1zMn8XPum2l7SwS3VzhDwDSp1j8_r_7fOz1Rbu9aip8KJwZSAg5XiGK4HXSU7shn8E/s3346/75-Albert%20Casuga2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3346" data-original-width="2375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tuAbaH1yNTBX_1_ULTmTU55a0MARYDYa0V6bsw2kOOBqlGbGMtmfeoKuvFyXxT2qhkNz8UUx4FednUNuj94yl5sUT22zUfrB4GwgVPfDPEmLIAryF1zMn8XPum2l7SwS3VzhDwDSp1j8_r_7fOz1Rbu9aip8KJwZSAg5XiGK4HXSU7shn8E/w284-h400/75-Albert%20Casuga2.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpWwVb1PVytk3UxAZZb8YS2-31Q0F4Se9YajdN-mUyRtLrNYLPqLt6hPr9A6XPqrNAhZsKd2lmklzURuK4UgDeltJmvgqiccB3ImIrqiVTyDX-gky18jJZzvAY9zvt5x1cOaI1h6drMLQWBRzfLrkNbkn1F-_DHKJfy3kYLD01qP6JGUuj60/s3126/81-Filomenita.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3126" data-original-width="1929" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpWwVb1PVytk3UxAZZb8YS2-31Q0F4Se9YajdN-mUyRtLrNYLPqLt6hPr9A6XPqrNAhZsKd2lmklzURuK4UgDeltJmvgqiccB3ImIrqiVTyDX-gky18jJZzvAY9zvt5x1cOaI1h6drMLQWBRzfLrkNbkn1F-_DHKJfy3kYLD01qP6JGUuj60/w246-h400/81-Filomenita.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-10523533110866034662023-04-04T22:56:00.002+02:002023-04-04T22:56:13.630+02:00100 Faces in 300 days, part 3: Self-portraits<p> <br /></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Self-portraits. At least the first five. There will be more. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I used to do a lot of these — in a mirror — as a young girl, particularly after I discovered the joys of 6B pencils. One of these days, I'll find those early sketches (out of proportion, but at least drawn from life) and post them. For the moment, these: taken from photographs of me from my childhood (lots of those) and early teens (very few — why was that?). The last one, of adult me, is from a photo taken <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>in December 2022. I dislike my adult face so much I couldn't bear to give it the same realism as the others, so, eschewing graphite, I decided on colored pencil: red and violet. Whatever happened to the big brown eyes (hidden behind glasses most of my life, but nonetheless part of my self-image)? Is it possible to ever love one's aging face?</div><p></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It would be great to start painting again, with big bold strokes, but the 100 Faces project must be finished first, and it really isn't a good idea to crack out the oil paints while we have the heating on and the house remains sealed against the (late) winter. I would like to do more dramatic, more critical, more subjective self-portraits, bordering on the un-pretty if need be.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5SyBjYuuidTM1YCOvi65vz7MrZ_n1umYXNwIXJNYJuLVPib7QepkBC6l2DMGRicnqea_RC9b4BqcF0TMzHi7l7zPa8zU4D2PjTpjSXF7DCq5X-53ltaB453LQrgk856bCHOKPrkZvMzunfgDZnSlK4ozjVDGjqSPkWIbl4CURwmTZxdUWZc/s3301/71-Bing%20at%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3301" data-original-width="2358" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5SyBjYuuidTM1YCOvi65vz7MrZ_n1umYXNwIXJNYJuLVPib7QepkBC6l2DMGRicnqea_RC9b4BqcF0TMzHi7l7zPa8zU4D2PjTpjSXF7DCq5X-53ltaB453LQrgk856bCHOKPrkZvMzunfgDZnSlK4ozjVDGjqSPkWIbl4CURwmTZxdUWZc/w286-h400/71-Bing%20at%206.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ELvOVwZMpV1PwYZL8haIyDPlOUN1McMf4b3ISwDxUQo3uu0yftH_nZymTl6HaOTxOHsSkjGPYU01f96UNLWtXxv8fpJoM2AIlUEez9V489wCe1pT8U9hiQIW8LyCXkXQ4p3mQx_iFhE1RDB1z22q0LjuDcILPD0U7yyDGa8g4UXAVZrpshE/s3230/62-self-portrait%20at%20six%20or%20seven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3230" data-original-width="2293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ELvOVwZMpV1PwYZL8haIyDPlOUN1McMf4b3ISwDxUQo3uu0yftH_nZymTl6HaOTxOHsSkjGPYU01f96UNLWtXxv8fpJoM2AIlUEez9V489wCe1pT8U9hiQIW8LyCXkXQ4p3mQx_iFhE1RDB1z22q0LjuDcILPD0U7yyDGa8g4UXAVZrpshE/w284-h400/62-self-portrait%20at%20six%20or%20seven.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVEgs_4E5Ga6cFIgiak27GpIWUWjPzimk96easQ2qnTkbUY-jXV2Myix5DiXAE500SqJjaC2NVtXbi-qnYdH5RCbeu2XDWjanW7B3gmkEO2pep6SRDl40suruCjDq8qyvM2PXfHYsGpEmjgXrRUkjS2d50Ne2MrHXQziQuIKfkfmA8cWDbTc/s3507/61-Bing%20at%2012%20v.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVEgs_4E5Ga6cFIgiak27GpIWUWjPzimk96easQ2qnTkbUY-jXV2Myix5DiXAE500SqJjaC2NVtXbi-qnYdH5RCbeu2XDWjanW7B3gmkEO2pep6SRDl40suruCjDq8qyvM2PXfHYsGpEmjgXrRUkjS2d50Ne2MrHXQziQuIKfkfmA8cWDbTc/w283-h400/61-Bing%20at%2012%20v.2.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PNEJzMylMbzgApIWyNDv5EAg1FOhfxvZYG4gcuYLt9wk-H6NPyu9cMXzAfVZNTrapTmpkz5IvzTZYwXu4hfP5OWZm8Zo7tV4wGt43PkOORNBNe08hcKYLnDo8g-RcugzIu-qZnOuRDdNHf9m7j8vdm0c-QxhvPXKb-6w4KEjWBpT1LFOTkg/s3626/72-Bing%20at%2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3626" data-original-width="2845" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PNEJzMylMbzgApIWyNDv5EAg1FOhfxvZYG4gcuYLt9wk-H6NPyu9cMXzAfVZNTrapTmpkz5IvzTZYwXu4hfP5OWZm8Zo7tV4wGt43PkOORNBNe08hcKYLnDo8g-RcugzIu-qZnOuRDdNHf9m7j8vdm0c-QxhvPXKb-6w4KEjWBpT1LFOTkg/w251-h320/72-Bing%20at%2015.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8GV_Vw102DQ4UsNL2CobQ77dkofOG-QBusHZKB4CaRENYJ7z8xn6cis_e0U8lCpSnFs8DOVBGV8lvo-G1cJ_pA6UfaO4sPXb0WswjQL1NA9fC9shKrlcPFEWe7ngnNAWHTPa-kkl7BnQhzxCLFAIM3o6Wtim6Sf3YMSXH2FXKdS1OSd1pM8/s3248/60-Bing%20at%2053-%20Dec%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3248" data-original-width="2169" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8GV_Vw102DQ4UsNL2CobQ77dkofOG-QBusHZKB4CaRENYJ7z8xn6cis_e0U8lCpSnFs8DOVBGV8lvo-G1cJ_pA6UfaO4sPXb0WswjQL1NA9fC9shKrlcPFEWe7ngnNAWHTPa-kkl7BnQhzxCLFAIM3o6Wtim6Sf3YMSXH2FXKdS1OSd1pM8/w268-h400/60-Bing%20at%2053-%20Dec%202023.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-69260828833206303282023-03-18T22:12:00.012+01:002023-03-19T11:48:26.709+01:00#OneWeek100People drawing challenge, 6-10 March 2023<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCWeYZrkUNjKYhgW1maXZoMe7zZEq_lLz-gqxdJ8CsRzsdlOQOBngKXWX2F4WKcCNatL2pIw3RCv_rEJBYWTMnz5isYlL1BA4cioqAaQXUscrVYfrMBOCNbiUkRyhYC3P5D4D7VKCy2fLf1T-87mM4ClbmMsz0X-xDc8giZdRPCBQXwZ2fH0/s720/330580805_6106612172740387_8957970121790106023_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="720" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCWeYZrkUNjKYhgW1maXZoMe7zZEq_lLz-gqxdJ8CsRzsdlOQOBngKXWX2F4WKcCNatL2pIw3RCv_rEJBYWTMnz5isYlL1BA4cioqAaQXUscrVYfrMBOCNbiUkRyhYC3P5D4D7VKCy2fLf1T-87mM4ClbmMsz0X-xDc8giZdRPCBQXwZ2fH0/w400-h296/330580805_6106612172740387_8957970121790106023_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>March 6 to 10 was when artists around the world buckled down to the #OneWeek100People drawing challenge, introduced by Marc Holmes and Liz Steel on Facebook in 2016, and still going strong. I did my own, beginning on Tuesday, March 7 and finishing all 100 by the morning of Saturday, March 11.<p></p><p>DAY ONE:</p><p>There was a snowstorm in Denmark, making it impossible to go out and find people to sketch. I've found it practical to do my drawings surreptitiously on the train on the way to and from work, but it was late and I was certain a trip solely for the purpose of sketching would culminate in being stuck in subzero temperatures at some station halfway between Copenhagen and our suburban town. The husband was travelling, so no hope of rescue in the car. The upshot of this was I stayed home and used a travel photo as reference, this one taken at an intersection in Bucharest in 2012. It's the image at the top of the post. I used a pen and my go-to 24-pan White Nights watercolor set -- cheap but with vibrant colors. </p><p>DAY TWO: I'd started a second drawing right after the first, using people from the other half of the photo, applying the same procedure: draw the lines, then color in with watercolor washes. I finished it to my satisfaction the following day, using a different brand of watercolor (Daniel Smith). The result has quite a different look from the first day's.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuItqetVSQbk6vgR2l8sgs3KFgtdiuoa7GCsh4o1T8s0qgbsu5OKNgfSkZ1ef2nYlQqFczpwQGYDbiA0GPRz4cgEj2HjTJhm7K_Ch9TV3nPLPOFVRAbpO0dSxth6hVhEsUmgSGzTfFm5BtgmO_32bf52S6D26bsAgGcVlXPH5lOCpXybyQlM/s720/330321543_620515169886521_4771194609205662704_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="720" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuItqetVSQbk6vgR2l8sgs3KFgtdiuoa7GCsh4o1T8s0qgbsu5OKNgfSkZ1ef2nYlQqFczpwQGYDbiA0GPRz4cgEj2HjTJhm7K_Ch9TV3nPLPOFVRAbpO0dSxth6hVhEsUmgSGzTfFm5BtgmO_32bf52S6D26bsAgGcVlXPH5lOCpXybyQlM/w400-h294/330321543_620515169886521_4771194609205662704_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>DAY THREE: </p><p>Did nothing but draw the whole day, starting off with another of my travel photos, this one taken at the My Son ruins in Vietnam. Then I headed off to the town library, where I found a seat on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot of a grocery store. It was 4:30 pm, just when people were doing their shopping or getting off the train from Copenhagen (or heading back) so there was plenty of activity. Finally, actual urban sketching of real people in motion. When I got home after an hour, I added some watercolor, and even managed to come up with three more watercolor sketches, no prelim pencil work. Hit 70 on the third day.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPoxOiEeXs4cJQwbVpnucZKD4hVh4_s-ccsDf3zQgypfsdR--aoGY2-gu3Pjgap1QCaYYXFxwQuBgWwKv8eD6rpBcINqXClyP6q2sp49ujmILnIWmLuuZSn6Ye46gvIj9PAHRIRAPpX2YLDt_VKmg88aVccOythfUvkNznLH8wi6NQWbHAeMo/s600/335024406_873949407203478_4737054186715984124_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="600" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPoxOiEeXs4cJQwbVpnucZKD4hVh4_s-ccsDf3zQgypfsdR--aoGY2-gu3Pjgap1QCaYYXFxwQuBgWwKv8eD6rpBcINqXClyP6q2sp49ujmILnIWmLuuZSn6Ye46gvIj9PAHRIRAPpX2YLDt_VKmg88aVccOythfUvkNznLH8wi6NQWbHAeMo/w400-h295/335024406_873949407203478_4737054186715984124_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnBxKtsShYkmRL61n-IxLvryfJ5UaoBZJ8btXelfbUmbCqPzwGRM500EFuIoSX2uOjTAtCMLT0eBGcDnnkLab7mnSfWbZQT9wZWZ5qyszw1psm6I2d2WDuRQ_KppLagNrqjWYxaySntJktDPGHUyAFBEUtOAIdi5vzrfogORJu3B8HORC4eI/s2048/335428953_239581348504868_252718463633699167_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1447" data-original-width="2048" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnBxKtsShYkmRL61n-IxLvryfJ5UaoBZJ8btXelfbUmbCqPzwGRM500EFuIoSX2uOjTAtCMLT0eBGcDnnkLab7mnSfWbZQT9wZWZ5qyszw1psm6I2d2WDuRQ_KppLagNrqjWYxaySntJktDPGHUyAFBEUtOAIdi5vzrfogORJu3B8HORC4eI/w400-h283/335428953_239581348504868_252718463633699167_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIBfBW4vyya8hp-x52QoTTwIgwarveDDhQgoujaWYBM_p4SbUj5qNU0ylKg2i4Qq8GbKuoFcJFeoMhwzQO5RGWBQkPj1m--PKi_q6ixvGRibPWF-ERsISVNhO6ZzhHu3bkR9Jj4AS8aEnx1V2YL4sMsMt7rnueBthZavUkFoqEwjOhSGlOq0/s2048/335416634_1432678220869976_6632099848403858636_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1610" data-original-width="2048" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIBfBW4vyya8hp-x52QoTTwIgwarveDDhQgoujaWYBM_p4SbUj5qNU0ylKg2i4Qq8GbKuoFcJFeoMhwzQO5RGWBQkPj1m--PKi_q6ixvGRibPWF-ERsISVNhO6ZzhHu3bkR9Jj4AS8aEnx1V2YL4sMsMt7rnueBthZavUkFoqEwjOhSGlOq0/w400-h315/335416634_1432678220869976_6632099848403858636_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBK6vgNysbt92dw1CvkVID6lBv79Cdk_7MlUtblL99iK3i2wtFTDuagpvv26GDFtbSImXciqVCSGPwzFz0H3W4JP_qRVagyOD1NqDRCmO2rxnxXsL-x0tEZ8cohkX5w9iOrciHKXg8Yuv6YgrrxF3e7G4hWmm3LTgxehrxDvZJMbo0RtE069I/s2048/335425051_1862485814121265_1935968044863047468_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1457" data-original-width="2048" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBK6vgNysbt92dw1CvkVID6lBv79Cdk_7MlUtblL99iK3i2wtFTDuagpvv26GDFtbSImXciqVCSGPwzFz0H3W4JP_qRVagyOD1NqDRCmO2rxnxXsL-x0tEZ8cohkX5w9iOrciHKXg8Yuv6YgrrxF3e7G4hWmm3LTgxehrxDvZJMbo0RtE069I/w400-h285/335425051_1862485814121265_1935968044863047468_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>DAY FOUR: Did a lot of teaching on Friday the 10th, so I barely had the energy to pick up my pen. I'm an English teacher at a private language school in the heart of Copenhagen, with about half of my students being Danish and the other half foreigners, generally from Europe, Latin America and East Asia. They're adults, all of them, and most need the English for work or to stay afloat in a graduate or postgraduate program.</div><div><br /></div><div>The school conducts English-language exams, and I serve as a speaking exam supervisor from time to time. One of my duties is taking digital photos of the candidates, who very often are in their mid to late teens. I decided to draw a bunch of Danish young people from the imagination. I started with the girls, and was too tired to do the boy equivalents afterwards. <br /><br />Some of the character of those hundreds of exam candidates, over several years, has seeped into these faces. I started with tiny pencil marks to designate the placement of the features and head, then did soft watercolor strokes to indicate their bone structure and hair color, and finished by defining their features with brush pens. The names of the girls, incidentally, are typical of Gen Z’ers in the Copenhagen area. They are entirely fictional.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zXdax69sivCaJqE1dWtmxOJMnmTmNevjJ__n9dn0kAVV7j7nTTsWRZoNcxL-qbnCubeZbwJas6MAvZKBbYoEhdiak9eVldEWi9iTBIDxj_Aq9tPo2iLLSdbgVSrhIrYHj4_ZcXTVkyVmvYNS2GtP1GrKwYXWlbAIuQE8eNchy5NbHDNEd7I/s2048/334978456_522037723337364_8218327161618401778_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1419" data-original-width="2048" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zXdax69sivCaJqE1dWtmxOJMnmTmNevjJ__n9dn0kAVV7j7nTTsWRZoNcxL-qbnCubeZbwJas6MAvZKBbYoEhdiak9eVldEWi9iTBIDxj_Aq9tPo2iLLSdbgVSrhIrYHj4_ZcXTVkyVmvYNS2GtP1GrKwYXWlbAIuQE8eNchy5NbHDNEd7I/w400-h278/334978456_522037723337364_8218327161618401778_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>DAY FIVE: It was Saturday, March 11, in Denmark, which is six to nine hours ahead of North America, and I had planned to go to the Statens Museum for Kunst (the National Gallery) to sketch the museumgoers, then meet some friends for lunch. But once again I had no energy to make the 45-minute journey by train, metro and bus. I was scrolling in some desperation through my Facebook feed when I came upon some photographs taken by high school friend Nancy Ugsad just a few hours or so before: of Silliman University early on Saturday morning (the Philippines being seven hours ahead of Denmark), with the varsity athletes practicing their pitches on a playing field, and members of the marching band sitting on the apron of concrete in front of the Luce Auditorium, each in their own world as they practiced on their instruments. I got Nancy's permission to use her photos, took up a Pitt brush pen, and with quick strokes fulfilled the rest of the challenge, filling in the outlines with a neutral tint (well, Daniel Smith's Jane's Gray, which is a mix of Burnt Sienna and Ultramarine Blue). I photographed the pages of my sketchbook, posted it to the #OneWeek100People Facebook group set up by Marc and Liz ... and was done.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDaPDSKztEbs34MawTE6NMdBJS7c6dvKyTq1bSg8g3F5ieOnEG6oU2v9VtTvPKAUonuaa_xqITbaymHsdf_LRqIT0_JsooJft6Ig5IDFX0qPnNF95IbmdpAkX17QiBWM46m5TPbDqb8ky7B7tnI2vBngoKocvlIUw3zktKNSET-OpVvALB0I/s2048/334757717_900347274555451_7205457766648458738_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1493" data-original-width="2048" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDaPDSKztEbs34MawTE6NMdBJS7c6dvKyTq1bSg8g3F5ieOnEG6oU2v9VtTvPKAUonuaa_xqITbaymHsdf_LRqIT0_JsooJft6Ig5IDFX0qPnNF95IbmdpAkX17QiBWM46m5TPbDqb8ky7B7tnI2vBngoKocvlIUw3zktKNSET-OpVvALB0I/w400-h291/334757717_900347274555451_7205457766648458738_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AfaQLQLv7cxB7yhM_9ITd9x3wC8Uuwy2WO6AN3jAsLKwW6G5HK8zxmnWDFMbuNn7Eu5fkFFmodOeYiwa5kEtQawBPO3dKZMgZIT7nP8-HcU_FbI6aru9TaaTuBlADCpG-SOoKOaX6JxsO0tdaIC_rY_j_dR5hG9PW7vI7hlLCOF3VuudI_w/s2048/334974976_894511965151237_1479884639731087487_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="2048" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AfaQLQLv7cxB7yhM_9ITd9x3wC8Uuwy2WO6AN3jAsLKwW6G5HK8zxmnWDFMbuNn7Eu5fkFFmodOeYiwa5kEtQawBPO3dKZMgZIT7nP8-HcU_FbI6aru9TaaTuBlADCpG-SOoKOaX6JxsO0tdaIC_rY_j_dR5hG9PW7vI7hlLCOF3VuudI_w/w400-h272/334974976_894511965151237_1479884639731087487_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWdGpVVRtR4W2WQcD3EUyPvhnNYHA55ZPs1idrnuTKoiYupY0ea9DeqbcwuEd269hKSVhsKL_nlbOmAjNDfgZpB4IpGzv12sAhriFjpYduLLs-lWtvTfdbmLmh_YZL3ZECd6hFMI2QmLWoZZ-MlPJTQMX_VULT1EEYMKJeV4fjF4dWzxyEqc/s600/335442634_3438658013074512_8557622751446537301_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="600" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWdGpVVRtR4W2WQcD3EUyPvhnNYHA55ZPs1idrnuTKoiYupY0ea9DeqbcwuEd269hKSVhsKL_nlbOmAjNDfgZpB4IpGzv12sAhriFjpYduLLs-lWtvTfdbmLmh_YZL3ZECd6hFMI2QmLWoZZ-MlPJTQMX_VULT1EEYMKJeV4fjF4dWzxyEqc/w400-h288/335442634_3438658013074512_8557622751446537301_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>OR so I thought. I was loathe to put away my watercolors, etc. Having abandoned it in late 2021, I was in love with small-scale painting once again. So after a bit of schoolwork, I closed the day with this little (A5) portrait of my email friend Dan Keller, from a black and white reference photo taken in the summer of '69. #OneWeek100People plus One.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzjt6mUGFayLE9FzBLqQrQXfi4Bjh0D7f_ZTKqgLRYcYIcpm1Zy5NjsTMPQX4WsFnKEAwM74iY0ktKHBjyW_fhz1vrYPwJGnDmiRY-d3eJnYRSGaMI_E-txb2r7Bo0sxcIkJwFCkPwMB2uxbyc4fR2H_pER6BLIB6tUBuncf9CUc7DtBG6JE/s640/335298132_735092671655297_9109292332264058597_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="519" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzjt6mUGFayLE9FzBLqQrQXfi4Bjh0D7f_ZTKqgLRYcYIcpm1Zy5NjsTMPQX4WsFnKEAwM74iY0ktKHBjyW_fhz1vrYPwJGnDmiRY-d3eJnYRSGaMI_E-txb2r7Bo0sxcIkJwFCkPwMB2uxbyc4fR2H_pER6BLIB6tUBuncf9CUc7DtBG6JE/w520-h640/335298132_735092671655297_9109292332264058597_n.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><br /><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></div><div>I consider the portrait of Daniel as the first in a new self-imposed challenge called "1000 People, 1000 moments", and which will be done in watercolor, alone or in combination with drawing media, no deadline, so as not to compete with all the other stuff I long to do.</div><div><span> </span><br /></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> --- Bing <3</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span>https://www.instagram.com/bing_sitoy/<br />https://www.facebook.com/lakambini.sitoy</span></div><div><span>https://www.facebook.com/bing.sitoy</span></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-69985097951103991042023-03-05T02:16:00.010+01:002023-03-05T13:30:37.292+01:00100 Faces in 300 Days project, part 2<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The faces are getting less and less precise. Not so much sloppy as reckless. Or free. One of these days, I will make a video of all 100 of them -- if I ever do reach the magic number, never mind that I probably won't hit the deadline in the end. Have been writing. Have been teaching. Have been working in the garden. Have been visiting with my elderly folks. Have been mentally agitated. Have been longing for far too much.</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6EjXBUzsRbR6zkCMcQD3ebfBpvnNyikFDqgKKHmrwIA22KXuQdodpXk5uQ3VCISB_MFo9pUWTpjJWpffuw-_Fxhgd9rsfWevwWGG_gcaeNhsH8P-Pa1yBq5rsla4PlT8sSlS7TScDXq4IAnE2uWcl0MLM6_2Q6YZL0B3x4vvqMqZNy-o6nw/s4000/20221217_132154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6EjXBUzsRbR6zkCMcQD3ebfBpvnNyikFDqgKKHmrwIA22KXuQdodpXk5uQ3VCISB_MFo9pUWTpjJWpffuw-_Fxhgd9rsfWevwWGG_gcaeNhsH8P-Pa1yBq5rsla4PlT8sSlS7TScDXq4IAnE2uWcl0MLM6_2Q6YZL0B3x4vvqMqZNy-o6nw/w300-h400/20221217_132154.jpg" width="300" /></a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6EjXBUzsRbR6zkCMcQD3ebfBpvnNyikFDqgKKHmrwIA22KXuQdodpXk5uQ3VCISB_MFo9pUWTpjJWpffuw-_Fxhgd9rsfWevwWGG_gcaeNhsH8P-Pa1yBq5rsla4PlT8sSlS7TScDXq4IAnE2uWcl0MLM6_2Q6YZL0B3x4vvqMqZNy-o6nw/s4000/20221217_132154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6EjXBUzsRbR6zkCMcQD3ebfBpvnNyikFDqgKKHmrwIA22KXuQdodpXk5uQ3VCISB_MFo9pUWTpjJWpffuw-_Fxhgd9rsfWevwWGG_gcaeNhsH8P-Pa1yBq5rsla4PlT8sSlS7TScDXq4IAnE2uWcl0MLM6_2Q6YZL0B3x4vvqMqZNy-o6nw/s4000/20221217_132154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6EjXBUzsRbR6zkCMcQD3ebfBpvnNyikFDqgKKHmrwIA22KXuQdodpXk5uQ3VCISB_MFo9pUWTpjJWpffuw-_Fxhgd9rsfWevwWGG_gcaeNhsH8P-Pa1yBq5rsla4PlT8sSlS7TScDXq4IAnE2uWcl0MLM6_2Q6YZL0B3x4vvqMqZNy-o6nw/s4000/20221217_132154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4LS0irMxpPYe_GYZnkaDQiPlcUfJh5pbr8pPeEtVG-0ejjL4qjwJ38Sq8P9SXW6sYtsaIEbRFaen-I3IOX8Fb0emZoEIUFt98-aNMSwn9mxRh6A_fitOBTPiCfbJFFV-3FB7vhWoyghrNSWIC4lHmCb-8AW_XAHDLqtaZ9DH9lql1rPgvpQ/w300-h400/20221217_132235.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKogauLwZytDTum7Pi3TPyW5HF3r1LsOh7CDu_TzuGWNy_56EjnHSbnNga5AfFwmuM7SJHsGcVz4TzxaI_xklUKD4uXBKIU2O77SqC6CnuREL_g5zWOOhVDoCG_y7GwFv9pI0u7pO_kK8tX1vPFaq41CAC9vX1wV0gYWrJDWGSADkOLT1jQ8Q/s4000/20221217_132204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKogauLwZytDTum7Pi3TPyW5HF3r1LsOh7CDu_TzuGWNy_56EjnHSbnNga5AfFwmuM7SJHsGcVz4TzxaI_xklUKD4uXBKIU2O77SqC6CnuREL_g5zWOOhVDoCG_y7GwFv9pI0u7pO_kK8tX1vPFaq41CAC9vX1wV0gYWrJDWGSADkOLT1jQ8Q/w300-h400/20221217_132204.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOXQ-0KZmoO6It3ov0FviEz9J89Rr-Qb9EAdpo-qcN9VQWoTHWkVw6v3AUQSD77IPB0wmWqHHtTN5Q6KlKsbW8Z4IN8TrJsHLPY2gQz5xhBR8CG_cLWStRsqX3sZOTN4YM2vplMPped1az2awhnvJFwk_WApAnGN0qAg12jwZjoPYN5CHlmU/s4000/20221217_132214.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOXQ-0KZmoO6It3ov0FviEz9J89Rr-Qb9EAdpo-qcN9VQWoTHWkVw6v3AUQSD77IPB0wmWqHHtTN5Q6KlKsbW8Z4IN8TrJsHLPY2gQz5xhBR8CG_cLWStRsqX3sZOTN4YM2vplMPped1az2awhnvJFwk_WApAnGN0qAg12jwZjoPYN5CHlmU/w300-h400/20221217_132214.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtySYTUg_RGWvZKB7azzfsT7b5-SEdvJ-pOhhQy_0sd4xiYJzLo9IFA8hPemQGZo6pHE2kg6nltoyzN-4DXdPJdaSky2bccIYjrlMu49EO3u4ZrR973KlNzMKGUmE-9oZmuggXudGOfANSLq6DorayxUwlfE6kbsKZHZ_dzdDp9mern5kUO0/s4000/20221217_132224.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtySYTUg_RGWvZKB7azzfsT7b5-SEdvJ-pOhhQy_0sd4xiYJzLo9IFA8hPemQGZo6pHE2kg6nltoyzN-4DXdPJdaSky2bccIYjrlMu49EO3u4ZrR973KlNzMKGUmE-9oZmuggXudGOfANSLq6DorayxUwlfE6kbsKZHZ_dzdDp9mern5kUO0/w300-h400/20221217_132224.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUW5DkoVuRgZZjCcRU7f1k5G1QaIQ5fbEeFMXdvq3QKg1wJo4ebEgXcHMbyatCVNCf83UM-4i4QIqJpm8A4PBfeJyrnGumy4L1uyL6412g--qg82XJEBrsrVXleKYa7n9C6NJjLrfqvSJu8CPGf1FugkgGuOR3lfSCJmwZ3vLeyXcZT4M8Oss/s4000/20221217_132018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUW5DkoVuRgZZjCcRU7f1k5G1QaIQ5fbEeFMXdvq3QKg1wJo4ebEgXcHMbyatCVNCf83UM-4i4QIqJpm8A4PBfeJyrnGumy4L1uyL6412g--qg82XJEBrsrVXleKYa7n9C6NJjLrfqvSJu8CPGf1FugkgGuOR3lfSCJmwZ3vLeyXcZT4M8Oss/w300-h400/20221217_132018.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_OhVzCOT-B9Z0bAHo39trfeMqDLvn7NfZdWji8OgACfD3N-GF6uVVL6kSAcbAHSLx6mHv6iNrDSGkZXOdpY4bAwnP1i7_bSxtzY9fOzLID7Ysqv-1BA7vt51R9GQIHJB_Z9zRjY03n6UuNL5PuIQuijcS2aYU_ssA1sNnR3lM0DXXQptFBE/s4000/20230305_011314.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_OhVzCOT-B9Z0bAHo39trfeMqDLvn7NfZdWji8OgACfD3N-GF6uVVL6kSAcbAHSLx6mHv6iNrDSGkZXOdpY4bAwnP1i7_bSxtzY9fOzLID7Ysqv-1BA7vt51R9GQIHJB_Z9zRjY03n6UuNL5PuIQuijcS2aYU_ssA1sNnR3lM0DXXQptFBE/w300-h400/20230305_011314.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAn4UOia79p8lb98x5lHrRVJBv-S3dfSNjTERFKDofhOgpFQE7KdHzyVreSExILUAmiy_pDzp8AfX9xEhmpbdEwxQfAJOmRx3WQPSGD8yhk-vTWoL87BcsnvYd7l6QTI7YZS611qpEsmuq6AzAYJwjix0E4oHJJJgekzMJuVOf5Z_Af5mor8/s4000/20230305_011234.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAn4UOia79p8lb98x5lHrRVJBv-S3dfSNjTERFKDofhOgpFQE7KdHzyVreSExILUAmiy_pDzp8AfX9xEhmpbdEwxQfAJOmRx3WQPSGD8yhk-vTWoL87BcsnvYd7l6QTI7YZS611qpEsmuq6AzAYJwjix0E4oHJJJgekzMJuVOf5Z_Af5mor8/w300-h400/20230305_011234.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6l3E6HSKbD2ifriQp4FWc3b6RQFopvDRjVNUU2DmZHwZ1VsnVLdVl82mYBXJ8K8DZV2fVt83ZAhdZO5JPH5aj2XlXNtxiZaqgyp0zLyTUcjSyqyuB1pTPzi0I1r3X9U-Flpr8NxlZiMMaqnJcFclj9KsdbOk-S5sqJFj_gE9qIoOXVuA8d50/s4000/20230305_011212.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6l3E6HSKbD2ifriQp4FWc3b6RQFopvDRjVNUU2DmZHwZ1VsnVLdVl82mYBXJ8K8DZV2fVt83ZAhdZO5JPH5aj2XlXNtxiZaqgyp0zLyTUcjSyqyuB1pTPzi0I1r3X9U-Flpr8NxlZiMMaqnJcFclj9KsdbOk-S5sqJFj_gE9qIoOXVuA8d50/w300-h400/20230305_011212.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-5pEgvAdJ65Y9vE7kxOPoa0CT31guUnaiaAqc-RMEpmn4onLW7eVRlCBfIBbkMpMu5rm7LJgbd6rXFk2C3vxYi_zOSlT03Iya_AoODvqV9SQhz0zaHBK_0p5lCztCjE8nS7dgU8OPfe2fe6rTV7oDZaRurJ-Hs8DwpWDp4q9iGh8Pmpohj8/s4000/20230305_011509.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-5pEgvAdJ65Y9vE7kxOPoa0CT31guUnaiaAqc-RMEpmn4onLW7eVRlCBfIBbkMpMu5rm7LJgbd6rXFk2C3vxYi_zOSlT03Iya_AoODvqV9SQhz0zaHBK_0p5lCztCjE8nS7dgU8OPfe2fe6rTV7oDZaRurJ-Hs8DwpWDp4q9iGh8Pmpohj8/w300-h400/20230305_011509.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSCbxmCh89FAM20AkthxFGmIY7UVXHWPiOaqk2un2emBTTNZEPjoQ0X4EI6M8xAqYb3sU6FJUoY_YH6D-JN_4eq1hQ1OCPdYJfm4tLluOHMxjNBwku5wJAQ2F498Gs1H2yivclITKOwLCuOihYDY4ZEw6_GjOL-ihcjbrHF1gTYIXqFvpsBs/s3679/20230305_011334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3679" data-original-width="2626" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSCbxmCh89FAM20AkthxFGmIY7UVXHWPiOaqk2un2emBTTNZEPjoQ0X4EI6M8xAqYb3sU6FJUoY_YH6D-JN_4eq1hQ1OCPdYJfm4tLluOHMxjNBwku5wJAQ2F498Gs1H2yivclITKOwLCuOihYDY4ZEw6_GjOL-ihcjbrHF1gTYIXqFvpsBs/w285-h400/20230305_011334.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-88889918457899158272023-02-21T22:06:00.039+01:002023-03-05T11:05:49.186+01:00Bing vs. Bianca, 1981-82<div class="separator"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiWC_JIiULJYOzWhU1wL3qTlhFxVTxzjQ_Sj4pHRa9KSCrHQs6spbeSlDPHH_YBxHbNu2kA-SpsGe1p5tNa_-oBPunSdJwwYQ3QnzLVg2-h-8nOpreTUiU_WR775OS5reGdSvsROBBufMd9E967fqUXrYNEWDKkE-P2Om6qQK4BaP3XN20mA/s3110/Bing%20ed%201981.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3110" data-original-width="1920" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiWC_JIiULJYOzWhU1wL3qTlhFxVTxzjQ_Sj4pHRa9KSCrHQs6spbeSlDPHH_YBxHbNu2kA-SpsGe1p5tNa_-oBPunSdJwwYQ3QnzLVg2-h-8nOpreTUiU_WR775OS5reGdSvsROBBufMd9E967fqUXrYNEWDKkE-P2Om6qQK4BaP3XN20mA/w248-h400/Bing%20ed%201981.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">THIS is how I, Bing, looked, circa late 1981/early 1982. Sitting against the piano and wearing a pink eyelet blouse. Twelve years old. This photo was taken at the faculty home on the Silliman campus where our family lived until I was 13. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>This is what I drew, among others. It's a tiny watercolor painting, a detail of a 5" x 8" inch piece that I had designed to cover an ugly spiral-bound notebook. It's <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065850/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Hornet's Nest</a> fan art -- except that the boys are depicted as girls: five girls to be specific. They recur in my stories and were initially named after people we knew, and came into being around the time I turned 8 and my sister 11. Then the names changed somewhat, as did their appearance and abilities.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjK6_T6ggs8ow08BLJsRRYNkdnIN83fEYHu89qoI6QlBEG-9E3CLsw7KpAbcg38cheZ2lijASmd0S7_CNdvQ0Saov2i5ZxBuKZItCrFe_OfbL-ZDp9VOb57Q8Z0gpABaTQng3kgzS07HBC3CeLRicMRoXFKOjxqtnEgR-JgB4Qf9f8iGSmxAY/s1728/Bing-notebook%20fan%20art%20HN%20detail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1728" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjK6_T6ggs8ow08BLJsRRYNkdnIN83fEYHu89qoI6QlBEG-9E3CLsw7KpAbcg38cheZ2lijASmd0S7_CNdvQ0Saov2i5ZxBuKZItCrFe_OfbL-ZDp9VOb57Q8Z0gpABaTQng3kgzS07HBC3CeLRicMRoXFKOjxqtnEgR-JgB4Qf9f8iGSmxAY/w400-h278/Bing-notebook%20fan%20art%20HN%20detail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>My avatar, also called Bing, is the one in blue dressed as <a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/2023/02/13-valerio-colombaioni-was-arturo.html" target="_blank">Arturo</a>, the tree-climbing boy super-soldier of <i>Hornet's Nest</i>. By then, two years had passed since we had seen the movie and I had forgotten that Arturo was supposed to wear long sleeves. This Bing's hair looks just like mine in the picture, the same grown-out bangs, except that the part is on the wrong side. This was probably because there weren't many photos taken of me at this time, so I knew my face only from what I saw in the mirror. </div></div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What did I, Bing, write at age 12? Hah. A scandal. Fan fiction. Here are the first two pages of a story, out of <a href="https://bingsitoy.blogspot.com/2023/01/an-il-vespaio-hornets-nest-1970-blog.html" target="_blank">hundreds if not thousands of pages </a>my sister and I produced throughout our childhood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fans of <i>Hornet's Nest</i> (1970) will recognize the names and the situation. For those who have not seen the movie... this story is Bianca's. She is the doctor who three boys lure to a cave to attend to the wounded paratrooper/demolition expert they have rescued from under the noses of the German troops. Here she finds 12 other boys, most in their mid teens, <span style="text-align: center;">who have been hiding out for weeks or months after their entire village is massacred by Nazis.</span> In the cave, confronted with the prospect of aiding one of the enemy, Bianca at first refuses. Violence results at the hands of 15 boys. Okay, let me put it squarely: they attempt to rape her, and are stopped by the demolition expert (Capt. Turner, played by Rock Hudson) who has just regained consciousness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The following morning, one of the boys expresses disgust at their behavior, and another insists they wouldn't have gone through with it. Despite this, I found the savagery of the near-rape sequence upsetting. But it was also intriguing. I had, after all, just turned 11. <br /><br />Bianca comes to realize that she is a prisoner of the Italian boys and the American captain, but throughout the movie, through dialogue and her actions, she resists.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bianca was played by <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0466977/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1" target="_blank">Silva Koscina</a>. I didn't know what her character name was at the time (we only saw the film once, in a theater, which was how people saw movies in 1980), so my sister and I gave her a different name. In this story I wrote (<span style="text-align: center;">I can see myself, nose to the page, utterly focused on the task of translating the story in my mind into words)</span>, she goes unnamed. The first two pages, and a third, are scenes from the <i>Hornet's Nest</i> movie as I remembered it, and was my way of keeping loyal to the subject matter. And also of recollecting the film, two years later. There are two completely made-up features here here. First is the interaction with the <a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/2023/01/daniel-keller-as-tekko.html" target="_blank">boy called Paolo</a>, who oddly I describe as being nine years old (more about this, and about him, to come). The second is the woman's attempt to undermine the group by pinching the child Mario so that he cries and attracts the attention of the German patrol -- that was definitely not in the movie! (The actual scene is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiwbK81hcdE&ab_channel=ForeverBlueClassics" target="_blank">here</a>, beginning at the 2:55 mark). Resistance indeed.</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IL9AmP5IZV0B7mynMTzjxWn0Q9Hu-YYsWgfd9kkFTt4ZpwRseRITmBa4gLaTX_zgIVGRIRSWMKpY-atnc24Y77T48qNHzwVXOQ7Nf6QC-GyZAm6Od6mH0zyuNwGMvJ0JHIfIN_WU_RV6wmFqkIVKQizghel4ldh3PiXT6GfIYrzMItbuLY4/s3387/IMG_5402%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3387" data-original-width="2581" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IL9AmP5IZV0B7mynMTzjxWn0Q9Hu-YYsWgfd9kkFTt4ZpwRseRITmBa4gLaTX_zgIVGRIRSWMKpY-atnc24Y77T48qNHzwVXOQ7Nf6QC-GyZAm6Od6mH0zyuNwGMvJ0JHIfIN_WU_RV6wmFqkIVKQizghel4ldh3PiXT6GfIYrzMItbuLY4/w488-h640/IMG_5402%20(2).JPG" width="488" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_nVt9B7ZBW3p4F1o71D5TmteKxG4WBF9z0YPq5IF2YP5H1TzqOvmb0jvQ3JyMP28hOs3AaL2a3f1bWV-4FEiehMrAjDrt9_mKif-KTip-xJsNFjaeJjRkVDOt_gwBWF8SKtaWLj8761cdph6ecwFxIDGZse5_blkUEm6KOEM0R9pct56ohw/s3357/IMG_5403ed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3357" data-original-width="2516" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_nVt9B7ZBW3p4F1o71D5TmteKxG4WBF9z0YPq5IF2YP5H1TzqOvmb0jvQ3JyMP28hOs3AaL2a3f1bWV-4FEiehMrAjDrt9_mKif-KTip-xJsNFjaeJjRkVDOt_gwBWF8SKtaWLj8761cdph6ecwFxIDGZse5_blkUEm6KOEM0R9pct56ohw/w480-h640/IMG_5403ed.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The third liberty I've taken will be familiar to writers of fan fiction -- telling the story from the point of view of a neglected or objectified character. Now the woman doctor is no longer the dolled-up, bouffant-haired creature to be knocked around and assaulted into submission, but is the subject herself. But I wasn't aware of that kind of academic language as I wrote. All I knew was that my sister and I disliked Bianca. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To me Bianca was an object of fun, a parent-figure (or a sexual yet prudish auntie figure) to be pranked and dodged. So for that matter, was the war-weary Capt. Turner, who my sister and I decided, out of guilt over his deeds, had gone quietly and completely insane. But as my sister turned 15 and we continued to write about and draw this universe, blending other movies and even comic books into it, Bianca became something else to her -- a whore-figure to be humiliated, for whom redemption was impossible. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>The frustrated rape in the cave (and the strong suggestion that it would be a gang rape) had a profound impact on us as children. It didn't help that, in the milieu where I had grown up, gang rape was a very real possibility for adventurous girls. At least it was held over us as a threat.</div><div><br /></div><div>My sister and I spent a lot of time discussing Bianca then, demonizing her for being a pacifist wet blanket (we were kids and we wanted war!) as well as being so sexually attractive. We never once considered that it was the actions of the boys (really just Aldo) that were savage. Or that it was war itself that is savage. The story I wrote runs for several pages as a summary of some events in <i>Hornet's Nest </i>as Bianca would have seen them, then heads into dark terrain. Because on page three she is raped by Capt. Turner, exactly as it appears (or is strongly suggested) in the movie. And, on page four, she discovers that she prefers to be taken by force. For as my sister and I merged more worlds into the <i>Hornet's Nest</i> one, our fictional Bianca went on to sleep with some -- a lot -- of the main players in each of those worlds, an invention I faithfully chronicled in the story, though not in any sexually explicit fashion -- more in the voice of a romance novel heroine, amazed at the attributes of each of these men, and of her response to them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wrap my head around the fact that, at 12, I was writing this stuff. My husband says, "Maybe you weren't really 12." He means that I was smart, I had read a lot, I was precocious. In retrospect, I was trying to reconcile the adult sexuality I'd seen a lot of in movies and read about in books with what was expected of us as young women. (No one enforced the R ratings in the cinemas, and awful soft-porn paperbacks made the rounds of high school classrooms). We were growing up in the kind of society (provincial Philippines, late 70s-early 80s) where it was still acceptable for people to say that good girls would never have sex before marriage unless they were forced. Therefore much of the rape fascination probably had to do with that. It was a kind of projection as well, and of revulsion -- "I'll never grow up to be like her. Not if I can help it."</div><div><br /></div><div>I was fascinated by Silva Koscina, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylva_Koscina">the actress,</a> though. I didn't hate <i>her</i>. There were lots of pictures of her in old magazines lying around the house, and her woman-warrior character Danitza (Danica) in <i>The Battle of Neretva</i>, seen a few months after <i>Hornet's Nest,</i> was one of my favorites too. She was brave and beautiful there, she dies valiantly, and she was no one's possession. (To be continued)</div><div><br /></div></div><div> </div></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span> </span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-26780896733813606542023-02-21T13:47:00.010+01:002023-02-23T10:52:43.317+01:00Throwback: 25 random things about me, Facebook 2009<p>Every once in a while, a friend from U.P. law school (she works at Allianz now; I dropped out in good standing when I was 23) reminds me of this Facebook post from 2009, back in the glory days when the social network was text-heavy as an extension of the old emailing list practice, and the meme had yet to be invented.</p><p>The post, a glamorized chain letter, was called <b><span style="font-size: medium;">25 random things about me</span></b></p><p>There were rules. <i>Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged... etc. etc.</i></p><p>Amazingly the 25 random things still hold true for the most part in 2023. I have marked in bold-italics those that are of particular resonance as I sit and write this today, in view of the numerous creative projects I am working on or keep dreaming about.</p><p>All this is TMI -- too much information -- of course. But what the heck.</p><p><br /></p><p><b><i>1. Drawing pictures is my first love.</i></b></p><p>2. I can make any dog come to me. <br /><br /><i>(2023 note: After the heart-wrenching loss of the family dog, we all switched to cats)</i></p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">3. I find creative writing a painful, </i>embarrassing, emotionally-wrenching, high-pressure and utterly tedious <i style="font-weight: bold;">experience,</i> like sawing yourself open with a nail file, or building a house with matchsticks. And at the end you discover this beautiful piece you have built from the ground up has already been said better by someone else. And when it’s published you have to defend it in some academic forum and try to sound clever or profound -- or people will label you “over-rated.” </p><p><i>(2023: Nope, I rediscovered the muse in 2022. Creative writing still hurts, but it hurts good now.)</i></p><p><b style="font-style: italic;">4. </b><span>Though I treasure my privacy, <b><i>my profession as a writer demands a certain amount of</i></b></span><b><i> exhibitionism. </i></b>It has often been a relief to write erotica under a pen name than to write a simple newspaper column under my own name.</p><p>5<b style="font-style: italic;">. I get years-long, rabid crushes on unavailable people.</b> </p><p><i>(2023: Hah! All writing is crushing).</i></p><p>6. I hurt the ones I love the most.<i> </i></p><p><i>(2023: No, not anymore). </i></p><p>7. I loathed high school. I am very cautious about which batchmates I allow back into my life. </p><p><i>(2023: Makes good creative writing fodder, though).</i></p><p>8. I passed up the chance to sky-dive.</p><p>9. I’ve been in a hot air balloon alone with a Japanese guy I didn’t know. He spoke no English. For some reason, he had problems controlling the burner, and we nearly crashed. When we landed in one piece far, far from the target, he kissed me on the lips!</p><p>10. I am still afraid to fly in airplanes.<i> </i></p><p><i>(2023: Got used to them).</i> </p><p>11. I have had more literary awards than I’ve had lovers. Tons more.<i> </i></p><p><i>(2023: Who cares?)</i></p><p>12. I have a talent for scrounge shopping. I once wore a beautiful outfit that cost three dollars from head to toe, bag to boots, culled from ukay-ukay shops in the Philippines.</p><p>13. I photographed my sister give birth, washed her when she was dying, and retouched her makeup twice in her coffin.</p><p>14. When I was 17, I had a pin-up of Pål Waaktaar (songwriter/guitarist/vocals for Norwegian band A-ha) on my bedroom door. </p><p>15. I’ve owned and used the same hard plastic light pink Springmaid comb every day for 15 or 20 years. I wash it in shampoo and hot water every now and then, and it’s good as new. </p><p><i>(2023: Jinxed: Shortly after writing these words, I lost the comb).</i></p><p><b style="font-style: italic;">16. One of my coolest experiences was sketching a male colleague nude </b>in the privacy of my solo apartment. </p><p>(<i>2023: Rest in peace, my friend. Our relationship was totally platonic btw. We were mutual fans.)</i></p><p>17. I wept into my palm at Robben Island and Tuol Sleng prisons. I hesitate to visit places where very many people suffered or died, but are drawn to them anyway. <i> </i></p><p>18. It takes me a long time to forget a grievance. I’m working to change this, I promise you.</p><p>19. I once did a 5 x 5 foot painting of the cover of the New Kids On the Block’s first (1986) album – and pasted it on all four panels of my closet door. </p><p>20. When I was 24, I accompanied a military team on a botched raid on an Olongapo brothel. The only person they “caught” (and harassed) was a just-circumcised seven-year old boy in a nightgown.</p><p>21. This is by no means a random list. This is a highly considered, self-censored list. I aspire to be the kind of person who can amuse you and engage you with playfulness and spontaneity and make you feel that you know everything about me after half an hour. </p><p><i>(2023: God, how nasty! To be fair, was going through sh*t at the time.)</i></p><p>22. I once crashed a barrier at a Sting concert unintentionally. The concert was part of his Mercury Falling tour -- Manila, 1996. They played “Roxanne,” and all the stage lights went red, and my friend, who was the real Sting fan at the time, screamed, and she and I started rocking the tube-metal barrier for fun. At the same time some other kids were doing it at the other end of the barrier, which then came down, and these crazed third-class ticket holders spilled all the way into the expensive seats, where all the multinational corporation expats were sitting. </p><p>(<i>2023: Not proud. Should have foreseen.</i>)</p><p><b><i>23. Although I still feel excluded in some ways, there is plenty to love about Denmark.</i></b></p><p>24. I can’t dance at parties. I won’t. Filipinos have a culture of dancing for the entertainment of others. You either dance as good as a japayuki, or you sit down. </p><p>25. Please fill in this blank with something you remember we shared...<br /><i>2023: Or check out my childhood crushie boys at the other blog</i> <a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/">https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/</a></p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-36135468765154824812023-02-09T05:55:00.002+01:002023-02-09T05:55:51.543+01:00I shall revise<p>I must revise.
I shall revise! Though “expand” is the more appropriate term. Expand the novel by
some 10,000 words. That's almost a reconceptualization of the whole thing. But
fortunately, I’ve gotten very useful feedback, which will light the way.
Feeling good.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I had given
myself a March 31 deadline for the “<a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Boys of Hornets Nest</a> blog. it looks like
I'll either speed up the writing, or begin the expansion while working on the
blog. Another novel was in the pipeline, but now it doesn't seem that I can
work on it until this current one is out of the way. Won't stop taking notes, however,
nor writing emails to the special ones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Oooh, cryptic.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-5832691159965002582023-02-01T17:49:00.012+01:002023-02-02T11:46:53.684+01:00Bornholm, where I worked on a novel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3ZqOqB7z2RsG8S47fjKgTIT7ihQ8wwhE9lDvKaRMId8Di_2r-AgdvfyKbpdztGBu8Q4d_yAAGrd_8inWRt8XZP-nlIUftT_JVqYrUElE4WkB9plNLh9K4emt4Xc46thDtcxxaS-Hd5zoEmjQLsVvLtgwnFUR4iF_ol_3ROAZYiNHpy1erOk/s2241/20220526_133733%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2241" data-original-width="2058" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3ZqOqB7z2RsG8S47fjKgTIT7ihQ8wwhE9lDvKaRMId8Di_2r-AgdvfyKbpdztGBu8Q4d_yAAGrd_8inWRt8XZP-nlIUftT_JVqYrUElE4WkB9plNLh9K4emt4Xc46thDtcxxaS-Hd5zoEmjQLsVvLtgwnFUR4iF_ol_3ROAZYiNHpy1erOk/w588-h640/20220526_133733%20(2).jpg" width="588" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p></p><p>WE stayed in a cabin on the island of Bornholm for a few days in May, 2022. It had been my idea to visit the place again (it is part of the territory of Denmark, though closer to Sweden). I wanted to swim in the ocean, walk silently through a forest feeling springy moss beneath my feet, return to the fabled cliffs.</p><p>As it happened, I remained in the cabin most of that week while my husband and our friends went sightseeing, only going out in the evenings to walk the kilometer or so down to the sea. I'd brought the draft of a novel along, and I had a May 31 deadline. In my computer, the novel existed in bits and pieces, including most of the ending and nearly all of the beginning, but I needed to work on the middle to connect everything. The middle is always hardest to write. </p><p>The day before we left, I sat down and listed all the incidents which I knew the story lacked. Then I numbered them in the order I wanted them to occur, figuring out how one might lead to the other.</p><p>It helped that the novel was outlined in a program called Scrivener, which is very useful for organizing your ideas, although not conducive to organic or intuitive writing. I'd been thinking of this book for years -- years! And now that the project was in motion, I'd been in love with the main characters for six weeks, and they had taken a life of their own and were beginning to flirt with one another in my mind. It was a hot and yellow spring -- if you've been to Denmark in the month of April you will know what I mean -- and as I dreamed them, on those moments of solitude traversing Copenhagen's immaculate sidewalks, I felt I was going crazy. I was giddy with happiness. </p><p>I was in the perfect frame of mind to finish a short book, and nothing -- not even Bornholm, not even the presence of dear friends -- would stop me. And I did complete it. I picked the episodes off one by one, and on our return, took a day's break to attend a birthday party and teach a class, and then charged into the home stretch and finished the book by the 31st of May, just as I had planned.</p><p>It was a first draft and not very good, but that is the reason why authors possess revision skills. </p><p>Here are some pictures from that stay in Bornholm. I do not know to what extent the few days on that Scandinavian island influenced the novel. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89Dpkc2ZaEoVH1ffbBLD8fwvTMCR6yXz-f2rABWKGi0o71lBUOzoWvQPa7m0wgS3rcNaN_sG8706jBd4AIYz_rbCA3ED8leUFLo-hAJgXY6Ok_ZPfnUKWzohChfCsUXE25sqSiBoc1Vl_9JdSilfzAyRCYUuqoVVk-B3od6sPzFyMmyxRuRU/s4000/20220524_183200.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89Dpkc2ZaEoVH1ffbBLD8fwvTMCR6yXz-f2rABWKGi0o71lBUOzoWvQPa7m0wgS3rcNaN_sG8706jBd4AIYz_rbCA3ED8leUFLo-hAJgXY6Ok_ZPfnUKWzohChfCsUXE25sqSiBoc1Vl_9JdSilfzAyRCYUuqoVVk-B3od6sPzFyMmyxRuRU/w400-h300/20220524_183200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtgoku4ocWZTTN3nU60JKpt1xaU7bbK1NuykjUdnw6AyJov1dh8XFgUPDq4peYPFu7uD6Cc8bPKqn3sOPfO3n7Kr57zsxHJ6Kai4DQv9RugbZhBPPjDkLn_womUVpbsurQk7h8bcsijhxpZPjlmMESPDz_o9qC_KejzhEcXFVCG1Itez3Pys/s4000/20220525_190757.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="4000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtgoku4ocWZTTN3nU60JKpt1xaU7bbK1NuykjUdnw6AyJov1dh8XFgUPDq4peYPFu7uD6Cc8bPKqn3sOPfO3n7Kr57zsxHJ6Kai4DQv9RugbZhBPPjDkLn_womUVpbsurQk7h8bcsijhxpZPjlmMESPDz_o9qC_KejzhEcXFVCG1Itez3Pys/w400-h225/20220525_190757.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEMuYhsDtMGQyYXLkvKNUugXlQHpKn7kJ7HT-EIksrz6Xuparf9VAH9SIiE1vub-kGrrwzmIZr6V5_8zSjLgYTotv6s9FgU82WbZdRY8GLvCqnj0RUD7Qm8W_fCsaZK7zZEU0SMekrI_wKXQKul3Yay78lCiHwpy04E7PxzQPWa0AAwB22Vo/s4000/20220525_191223%20-%20Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="4000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEMuYhsDtMGQyYXLkvKNUugXlQHpKn7kJ7HT-EIksrz6Xuparf9VAH9SIiE1vub-kGrrwzmIZr6V5_8zSjLgYTotv6s9FgU82WbZdRY8GLvCqnj0RUD7Qm8W_fCsaZK7zZEU0SMekrI_wKXQKul3Yay78lCiHwpy04E7PxzQPWa0AAwB22Vo/w400-h225/20220525_191223%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKhppvVLGjWd1edH6r6uu87wuJpKFxvSj6EeWU9Wsnb095frZAeONVvnIJ_yP8Ys5v6e31XC4nylSds-cZ-nEM7wTQT2Ums_UzjdlNhiJsGf11sL2LELgpb2w8oVqZtiXG3A5r-BKQQnskSzGdOG94ERP8RJNe5ggSy3kwF1EbGpj3cokHUQ/s4000/20220525_185709%20-%20Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKhppvVLGjWd1edH6r6uu87wuJpKFxvSj6EeWU9Wsnb095frZAeONVvnIJ_yP8Ys5v6e31XC4nylSds-cZ-nEM7wTQT2Ums_UzjdlNhiJsGf11sL2LELgpb2w8oVqZtiXG3A5r-BKQQnskSzGdOG94ERP8RJNe5ggSy3kwF1EbGpj3cokHUQ/w480-h640/20220525_185709%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaiY_QNX_IPjiXVZKoxGGvKEpJjN23oSGD8p01gx_-b3qpuYZGP-teP0pPMgRw-9q8RdtdPY41FzNfiE_LvS7atCyykuF56GAioJ0lx3cVi-ZfeyhAtBjYH0K84Wd8bpo0pYz_YL-bEQYL05T5Bj1ImkqCHjA9h9CwmUvaYsH0R3Lz5_hWyc/s4000/20220525_171703%20-%20Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaiY_QNX_IPjiXVZKoxGGvKEpJjN23oSGD8p01gx_-b3qpuYZGP-teP0pPMgRw-9q8RdtdPY41FzNfiE_LvS7atCyykuF56GAioJ0lx3cVi-ZfeyhAtBjYH0K84Wd8bpo0pYz_YL-bEQYL05T5Bj1ImkqCHjA9h9CwmUvaYsH0R3Lz5_hWyc/w480-h640/20220525_171703%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Text and photos copyright Lakambini Sitoy, 2022, 2023. <br />Check out my Il Vespaio (Hornet's Nest, 1970) <a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">blog</a>.</i></p><div><i><br /></i></div></div><br />Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-45680297197728859922023-01-25T15:40:00.006+01:002023-01-26T05:38:36.923+01:00A new novel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/ " style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2883" data-original-width="3738" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNC_1rqxr7Ch1E4ENaAI7-ujOINtgrU1OqR_kssPf59pP-kng-TWO8Xk5xtjMDhxCV2KI_hS5FYXPXbANKcTdDMw_cG_QbOEFcwATqN8ecnagkDwiCemuCFvsI5EZ7h2MEEKUTVCzdwQ_eoDxAsRGbIy_O7DHi-wJK7Y0v9nkXG96M6pBgnrU/w400-h309/20220925_122607%20-%20ed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I sent in a manuscript to a publisher today. They'd expressed interest in the book (a short novel) based on the synopsis I'd emailed them.</p><p>Now to keep my fingers crossed and be prepared for rejection, or if the news is good, the possibility of revisions. I've been writing a lot the past weeks <span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">— </span> emails, blog posts, private fiction <span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">— so</span> further writing need not proceed from a cold start.</p><div><div>I can't say anything about the book right now other than to say it was written in the first half of 2022, before I was gripped by <i><a href="https://hornetsnest1970.blogspot.com/ ">Il Vespaio</a> </i>fever. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Also that in 2022 it felt like a book that I needed to get out of the way before I could indulge in the rest of my projects. </div><div><br /></div><div>The accompanying pastel drawing is of some limestone cliffs I photographed as we drove back from the Batu Caves to Kuala Lumpur in September 2022. I added the beach and the water. It is now a view of a tropical island, the world of my new novel. </div><div><br /></div><div><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 14px;"> © 2023 Lakambini Sitoy</span></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25797522.post-8659265407707181492023-01-07T12:55:00.010+01:002023-01-07T17:04:17.838+01:00My tough years in Denmark<div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I've gotten into an email conversation that means a lot to me, because it is with an actor in a movie from long ago, a movie which is one of my guilty pleasures to this day. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">***********************************************************************</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><b>He wrote:</b> You write compellingly of the experience of the Ukrainian immigrants you teach. Was that also your own experience when you moved from the Philippines to Denmark?</i></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I replied: I don’t know where to begin. The move from the Philippines to Denmark was …complicated, and was carried out over several years, as I travelled back and forth between both countries, trying to figure out whether I wanted to be married to a Dane or not. In the beginning there was the usual euphoria of being in a new place – the romance of perfect Scandinavia. (Incidentally, the first European country I ever visited, in 2001, was Finland, and it was then that I fell in love with the whole Nordic shebang)</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I was free and independent. Then came the realization that, with the move to Denmark, I had lost everything. Friends, network, career, a job, all my languages. Unless they are lucky enough to have found employment in a Danish company (in which case they can speak English to their heart's content) new immigrants must go through public Danish-language education, and it’s here that the breaking-in, or breaking-down, begins. My situation was complicated in that I was in Denmark on account of marriage (so the permanent resident requirements were harder to meet), and I am a youthful-looking Asian woman. So in 2008 I went from being journalist with a career and “one of the best Filipina writers of her generation” to being the Asian wife of an older man, categorized alongside “mail order bride,” “au pair” and “Bangkok prostitute.” I was the Asian woman no one would talk to at parties because maybe she didn’t even understand what was going on and it wasn’t worth the effort spelling things out to her. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">In time I learned to manipulate that “youthful-looking Asian woman” thing – but it was haaard.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">*** </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I re-read what I'd written and wondered if I sounded angry. I hadn't meant to. Had I given away too much of myself? I don't think so. There is nothing here that I hadn't articulated to my friends (very often after a few sips of wine), and I do recall saying something very similar to this to the wife of a friend from way back (she a producer, he a filmmaker) when we met in Manila in 2022. With the few fellow writers and creatives that I've met in Europe, the sentiments are the same. Some have worse stories to tell.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">The only difference is that I don't put this out on Facebook. For many of us, Facebook is the place to curate the brighter side of life -- not that the life we put out on Facebook is a lie, but it's what we have after we've managed to cut away the unpleasantness (that all of us go through anyway). For some, Facebook is a place to bitch and trigger people. Not for me.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">***</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>I continued: </b></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I’ve been writing “fan fiction” for myself (<i>Note: Over the 2022 holidays</i>). For the pure enjoyment of it. And certainly for the practice … when I haven’t written in a long time the words don’t flow as they should, and the writing becomes self-conscious. It helps me in my writing practice because I don’t have to worry about creating new characters nor scenarios (since these are alternate perspectives on earlier ones I created) and enables me to focus on the act, the art and the pleasure of putting my fantasies into words. ...</span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I’ve been trying to write a book about the experience of migrating to Denmark for years and years. Most often a certain anger boils up and I have to put the task away. By practicing the craft of writing I hope to find the right balance between passion and distance. At some point in 2023, I’ll put aside the blog (<i>A blog on the boys of Il Vespaio that I am slowly building</i>) and find my way back to this book. I wrote a short novel for young people early in 2022, so I've gotten some recent practice already.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">********************************************************</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">Now that these thoughts have been put into words, they are less frightening. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">And it's somehow easier to proceed with writing about the immigration experience to Denmark. I don't mean to be disloyal -- I am a dual citizen after all. But it speaks of how deeply we "newcomers in Denmark" have been conditioned to believe that we are eternal guests in this country and must behave and smile and say thanks, that more than 19 years after I first set foot here, after 15 years of marriage and of being a dutiful and law-abiding citizen, I still worry about being labelled ungrateful and -- </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">being a second-class citizen -- unworthy of speaking out.</span></div><div><br /></div>Lakambini A. Sitoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04721871422036115736noreply@blogger.com0