Women of the War

As we Filipinos go about our daily lives, we are often blissfully unaware that the streets we navigate had been the sites of massive devastation about seven decades ago, during the Second World War. A lot of people lost their lives in bloody massacres. Whole city blocks were vaporized in a matter of minutes. An incredible amount of art works, treasures, books, and other manifestations of the cultural wealth of our country was lost forever.

Unaware of the destruction of the past, a number of our citizens have the impression that it is normal for urban centers to be so bereft of heritage resources, to be so stripped of meaningful connections with the past. Sadly, because we were not surrounded by heritage structures while we were growing up, we find very little use for such things, considering old buildings and other tokens of tradition as garbage that must be eliminated. Writer Bambi Harper likes to point out that after World War II, many of the facades of the churches of Intramuros were actually still standing. Yet instead of rebuilding such revered edifices - the way many cities in Europe had done - top officials decided to bulldoze away the last vestiges of the historic core of Manila. Such lack of concern for heritage structures would have been unthinkable in other civilized countries. In the same way, foreigners are often unable to imagine how such an architectural jewel as the Jai Alai building could have been so insolently torn down with such haste - despite public protest - only for the site to be left idle up to this day.

Filipinos travelling abroad are usually surprised to find whole neighborhoods filled with stately buildings from another era. Even in such bustling places like Delhi, Boston, London, Paris, and Florence it is quite common to have street upon street of edifices which are several hundred years old, still well maintained and vibrant. We sometimes think this situation is amazing, not realizing that this continuity with the past is really the norm in much of the world. Sadly, it is Manila which is unique even in South East Asia for having lost so much of its heritage structures because of the massive damage of war, because of the effect of centuries of typhoons and earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions, plus human neglect.

It is therefore a cause for joy when we happen upon places in the Philippines where the past is still cared for and very much present. One such place is Vigan.

Visiting this UNESCO World Heritage city is truly a treat for those who have a longing for days of yore. It is probably the only town in the country where one can still see endless streetscapes of lovely old houses and shops. I recall sleeping in an ancient ancestral home in Vigan and waking to a vista of mist settling on tiled roofs. One feels transported, mesmerized by the strange tangibility of vanished worlds.

Inevitably, the question is asked: Why did Vigan survive?

The answer to this puzzle lies at the heart of a new play, Babae ng Digmaan, that will be presented at the Meralco Theater on September 10, 2011. The story of why Ilocos Sur’s gracious capital still stands intact is truly a magical tale, a narrative which is worth savoring.

As in all such tales of magic, the circumstances have something to do with matters of the heart. Filipinos are used to stereotypical images of the brutality of Japanese soldiers during the Second World War. What is often lost among such trite images are the nuances of the many relationships which arose between the people of Japan and the Philippines. After all, migrants from the Empire of the Sun have been living in the Philippines for a long time. During the War, even as there were instances of cruelty and violence, there were also moments of tenderness and compassion.

In the case of Vigan, two love affairs blossomed and bore fruit. The first was between Belen Castillo and Major Sakae Narloka . The second involved Adela Tolentino and Captain Fujiro Takahashi. So concerned were the Japanese officers for their wives and families that they would bravely defy their superiors’ orders to burn Vigan. All they asked for their acts of courage was that their loved ones be spared by the citizenry from the sad fate of others who had become intimately associated with the departing defeated former conquerors.

Working with his own script and with music by Ato del Rosario, director Sonny Cristobal with the full support of Vigan mayor, Eva Singson Medina, has put together a fascinating production. What is interesting to note is how Sonny allows fabric to actively participate in the play. Among the features that add to the integrity of Vigan is the fact that its crafts industries are still very much alive. Weaving is one of the more prominent products of the city’s many craftspersons. It makes a lot of sense then that images of cloth and clothmaking would play important roles in “Babae ng Digmaan”.

In one scene, one sees the women busily spinning thread, while in another scene the elaborate costumes made from local textiles add character and color. Perhaps the most moving episode is a love sequence involving the two main characters carried out beneath a layer of finely woven cotton mosquito net cloth. This subtle enshrouding member makes the moment especially poignant even while it is suffused with a languid eroticism. After all the kulambo or mosquito net has always been a well known metaphor in Philippine life for marital relations.

Another noteworthy feature of the production is the fact that the cast are all newly trained actors. A large number of them are, in fact, working in the offices of the city government. Their performances, while professional also carry a certain freshness.

By the time one gets to the triumphant end one cannot refrain, however, from thinking about what the celebration is really all about. After all, even as the Second World War ends, innumerable disasters and problems still await the fledgling Philippine Republic. Yet one realizes that this play is reminding us that there is certainly much to be grateful for. One gives thanks that in places like Vigan, the horror of war could still produce a thing of beauty: a tale of how the sense of being human transcends race and prejudice, ambitions and intrigues.

A Source of Light for Amorsolo

A few years ago, the Manila art crowd was all abuzz over the multi-museum Amorsolo exhibits. On display was a whole range of works by one of our most famous national artists. The Lopez Museum featured the book illustrations of Don Fernando, particularly those in the Philippine Readers series. Meanwhile the Met had landscapes while Ayala focused on portraits. The show at the GSIS zeroed in on what were termed “values” which were supposed to be observable in the selected paintings, a problematic strategy at best. Perhaps the most remarkable shows were those at the National Museum and at the Vargas Museum.

The National Museum show, as curated by Dr Patrick Flores, discussed how Amorsolo’s works were implicated in the project of imagining a Philippine nation. Among its most memorable sections was one that contained only three paintings: a portrait of Mrs Imelda Marcos by the Indonesian painter Basuki Abdullah, a mythological scene by the Spanish artist, Joaquin Sorolla, and a tiny head study of a Dalagang Bukid by Don Fernando.

Mrs Marcos’ huge portrait illustrated how art works can help create a larger-than-life persona for their subjects, an important factor when crafting a national reputation. The scene depicted in the Sorolla painting was drenched in the radiance that is said to have inspired Amorsolo himself . In a sense, the Dalagang Bukid was positioned right at the intersection of the Marcos portrait and the Sorolla mythological canvas. For this small work was a fine example of how Amorsolo managed to forge a sense of nation through idealized images of farmworkers set in the golden landscapes that would captivate generations of art collectors.

Thinking then of how Sorolla was said to have influenced our very own Amorsolo and finding myself during a trip to Madrid with some extra time on my hands, I decided to seek out the house museum of this well-loved Spanish artist. It turned out that the museum was just a few blocks away from where I was staying. A short walk in a genteel neighborhood of elegant apartments and tree-lined streets and I was at the imposing doorway of the Museo Sorolla.

The aesthetic experience begins in the garden. The garden is supposed to be in the style of the south, akin to the parks and courtyards found in the opulent palaces of Granada and Seville. One passes a tiled fountain with jets of water tracing silver arcs in the air, distilling a moment of solitude tinged with surprise. A word comes to mind for this leafy enclave: dappled. It is a foretaste of what awaits inside the house.

Soon one is in the midst of chambers suffused with an orange that is at once fruit and sunset. I was a little worried that the color of the walls was so strong that the art works would be overpowered. I need not have been concerned. Each painting was a square of light so dazzling that it almost seemed like one was peering through a window, beholding other worlds unfold. Everything felt fresh and new, yet strangely familiar. Perhaps my own realm had somehow been touched by this luminescence before.

I saw large canvases of swimmers bathed in a glowing liquid which is both gossamer fabric and resplendent light. One feels heat and ice, one is stunned but also caressed. There are country scenes with folk in local costumes. There is a woman adrift in a sea of flowers and another asleep in a bed of what seems more like snow than linen.

Since this is the artist’s former home, an effort was made to preserve something of Sorolla’s lifestyle and decorative tastes. A feeling of intimacy arises as one surveys tablescapes and shelves arranged as if their owner had just stepped out for a coffee and would soon return.

From the front galleries, the visitor moves into a great room. Here the height of the ceiling and the fact that the walls are lined from top to bottom with huge works all add to a breath-taking experience. Somehow I began to imagine music, notes floating in the air already redolent with laughter and the blurred edges that only candlelight as well as wine can bring.

A large painting of a woman in a long dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves is displayed on an easel. One cannot help but think of John Singer Sargent’s double portrait of a similarly attired Mrs Isaac Newton Phelps Stokes posing with her husband. This makes sense because Sargent and Sorolla have been associated with each other – there was even a 2007 exhibit of the two in Paris. Perhaps it is the frank expression of the sitter in the Sorolla piece that reminds one of the confident Mrs Stokes, upstaging her spouse who is relegated to the shadows. Perhaps it is nothing more than a matter of matching sleeves.

The next section is a dining room and what must have been the main vestibule of the original house. It was here that it dawned on me: many of the gracious Manila mansions that I have had the good fortune to see have a similar ambiance. I am standing at the foot of the staircase of a home in Madrid and yet I am transported back to the foyer of the grand country estate of the Escuderos or even the white flowing spaces of the home of Don Luis Araneta. I feel quite certain that the well traveled owners of these lovely residences had been inspired with interiors just like what I was now viewing. It is, in fact, almost impossible that they had failed to visit this very house. One gets an idea then, no matter how fleeting, of what Don Luis and Dona Rosario may have been trying to recreate in their faraway tropical milieu.

And what of Don Fernando?

Yes, he is certainly here too. One can see him in a drop of sunshine on water, the sheen of a grassy carpet, the translucence of a petal. He is here in the turn of a head or in a quiet smile, in a hand that is held just so. Visiting Spain in 1916, Amorsolo became acquainted with the works of Sorolla. Though he may never have set foot in this house since it only opened as a museum in 1932, it is known that the Spanish painter made quite an impression on Don Fernando.

Sorolla had actually made his mark with canvases that excoriated the harsh social realities of Spain in the early twentieth century. Yet he would eventually turn his back on the realist genre, preferring the sun-kissed scenes which he is now known for. Perhaps he had come to believe that the planet was already so full of pain. He wanted his art to be a balm and not one more burden.

So with Amorsolo. Seeing paintings by Sorolla like the ones glistening on these walls, Don Fernando may have been inspired to portray his own little country in the midst of splendor.

Amorsolo has been much-criticized for creating works that blinded his countrymates to the despair that was all around them. Yet, possibly, viewing the paintings of Sorolla, he may have been touched with the illumination which he made it his mission to share, clearing a bright path for others to follow.

The writer wishes to thank the Spanish Embassy for arranging his trip to Spain.

Whispers from Seville

The last stop in my week long itinerary was Seville. I was going down for just an overnight jaunt from Madrid to attend a short meeting. It almost seemed such a waste to exert all that effort. What could I hope to even see or experience about the city?

I had had the good fortune to visit this grand Andalucian metropolis a couple of times in the past. The last occasion was in connection with an international conference on museums. We had been billeted in the newer section of town. I still recall streetscapes of faceless concrete walls and bleak sidewalks baking in the noonday heat. I was not eager to return to this environment.

As it turned out, memory did not serve me well. I had only remembered the less appealing aspects of Seville. Much more awaited me.

To begin with, the trip down from Madrid on the high velocity train (AVE) was very relaxing. The ride was so smooth that one hardly felt anything but the invigorating hum of the engines as the landscapes of Southern Spain unfolded beyond the windows. The countryside was an endless curve of dryness: slope upon barren slope rising to touch an unbearably blue sky. One begins to understand why the conquistadores felt the need to go out and explore new dominions. Growing up in such a desiccated region where every element is boiled down to its barest minimum must generate a yearning to feel the pulsing, boundless fecundity of torrid, tropical realms.

A minor catastrophe ensued as soon as our train reached the station. I had been relying on consulting the tourism office for directions to my hotel. Unfortunately, even though it was only about 8pm, the visitors’ assistance desk was already closed. How was I to find my lodgings for the night? Fortunately, I was emboldened to throw myself at the mercy of the first cab driver I encountered. The fates were kind to me that day and instead of being kidnapped and sold into slavery, I was whisked off to my hotel which, as it turned out, was just minutes from the station.

I had been booked in a lovely establishment in the old quarter of the city. I soon saw why many people find Seville so charming: there were romantic plazas which sheltered quaint cafes, gorgeous buildings with elaborately carved facades, tiny shops that tantalized with exquisite confections.

My hotel was the Fernando III on Calle San Jose. My room had wonderful views of glistening domes and distant towers. We even had a roof top pool. Since it was a clear summer evening with a full moon I had a vision of myself lazing in cooling waters, watching as the districts of Seville unfurled before me like an admiral’s banner. I rushed out to buy a swimsuit.

Sadly, by the time I returned, the pool had closed. What about an early morning dip? This too was not to be – swimming was only allowed after 10 am. Spain ran under a different clock, I was reminded.

To console myself, I set off again. I soon came upon a gelato establishment. Surveying the flavors that were being offered, I smiled. Yes indeed, I was on the Iberian Peninsula. Nowhere else in the world would there be such a gelato flavor: turron!

The next morning, I set out early for my meeting. As I turned a corner I encountered the magnificent mass of the Cathedral: wave upon wave of stone burnished gold by the dawn. Dominating the entire scene was the temple’s lofty bell tower which had been a minaret in a previous avatar. It is so loved by the locals that they have a nickname for it: La Giralda.

On the other side of the street was the solemn façade of the Archivo de las Indias, fabled repository of the accounts of the ages. Glistening amidst distant shadows further off was the gate of the Alcazar, the vast palace that, about a thousand years ago, was the home of the former Moorish rulers of Seville.

I stopped to breathe deep in the sheer pageantry of it all. I was in the presence of one of Europe’s most impressive cathedrals – crowned with a lofty spire, a symbol of how one faith’s landmark may be reinvented by another. Facing this is an incredible archive, treasure house of stories that spanned oceans and empires. Finally, there is a palace, huge walls surrounding magical courtyards. Yes, this was a plaza that had witnessed the full force of history. This was the kind of space from which the world was ruled.

I so wanted to decipher the mysteries of every corner. But I barely had time for a quick circuit of the cathedral and to tour the archives. There would be no chance to see the Alcazar. In a previous visit, I had attended an evening reception there. From a balcony I had caught the glimpse of a fairyland of gardens, massive palm trees hiding the hints of the most delicate of fountains. How I would have wanted to stroll amidst such splendor. Sadly, like my swim beneath the moon, this too was not to be.

What was left then? What of Seville would I be allowed to savor and bring back from this journey?

It was my hostess, Senora Maria Isabel Simo, Director of the Archives, who would hold the answer. She had been forewarned that the poor Filipino that had been deposited on her doorstep had been raised according to a different routine. While to many Spaniards, the day was just beginning at about 11am, this denizen of a faraway former colony was already dizzy from hunger.

Mercifully, she ordered a stop to our meetings and took me out for a snack. We went to a nearby café called Azabache. I had visions of Helena Guerrero (who had once owned a fashion label of the same name) suddenly materializing to take our orders. But instead, we were in a self service restaurant and my host’s assistant gamely went to get our food. He came back carrying wedges of bread on which we were to crush a slice of tomato that in turn would be lavished with streams of olive oil. Such a simple combination but amazingly delicious!

After a few more hours, we would go out again for the real meal of the day. It turns out my hostess had arranged an entire feast for me. This time she led me to a famous eatery called Baco, which she explained was housed in what used to be a store for textiles.

Baco is well known for bacalao, the celebrated salted cod which is the stuff of Spanish culinary legend. We started with a helping of tiny herbed potato omelets made more savory by slivers of the world-renowned fish: tortillas de patata con herbabuena cubierta de laminas de bacalao.

This was followed by a plate of cheese and ham: Hamon Iberico de Bellota, Caña de Lomo Iberico, Queso de Manchego. There was also a fresh salad spiked with more bacalao and a dish of roasted vegetables.

To create a gustatory pause we were served a refreshing cold soup: salmorejo. Señora Simo, seeing my interest as evidenced by the velocity of my consumption, courteously wrote down the recipe. Salmorejo was a medley of garlic, ham, tomatoes, bread soaked in water, half a red pepper, and finally, the basic building blocks of oil, salt, and vinegar, all pounded together into a light porridge. She says that this concoction was her husband’s masterpiece. While we relished the soup, we spiced our conversations with observations on how many ingredients in this heady mixture had crossed oceans to end up in our bowl. Red pepper for example, had once been native to the Americas. This vegetable and its even more intense cousin, the chili, would be carried in the Spanish galleons to the farthest reaches of the planet. They were now part of the identity of almost every nation in Asia and Africa.

Finally came the main course of medallions of bacalao dotted with home-made mayonesa on a bed of richly flavored tomatoes. I was truly sated. That said, I somehow found the space for dessert: a sumptuous cake of dark chocolate and nuts.

As Señora Simo walked me back to the hotel to get my bags for the trip home, she pointed out more city sites – the bishop’s palace, the house where Columbus’ son had lived. At one point, she stopped and invited me to turn around. As I did I encountered a view of the Giralda in all its grandeur. This was a proud structure that had seen the parade of the epochs, that had witnessed monarchs assume and then abandon their thrones. This was a structure that had stood silent as cultures mixed and merged, as continents were conquered and then transformed.

Suddenly I understood. I had no reason for remorse. I had experienced Seville if even for a few moments. Places may yield their stories through intense research, peregrinations, and excavations. Yet the meanings of a city may just as well come to you as a whisper, a flavor that lingers on your tongue and then is gone.

The writer would like to thank H.E. Ambassador Jorge Domecq, Mr Antonio Garcia, and the Spanish Embassy for arranging his trip. The writer would also like to thank the Archivo General de las Indias for hosting his visit to Seville.