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.

Reinventing Gandhi

Photos and Text by Ino Manalo

The visitor to India will find numerous references to the life and teachings of its founding father – Mohandas K. Gandhi. There are statues of him in many city squares, streets and schools are named in his honor, just like with our very own Jose Rizal. What I find impressive, however, is the fact that the Mahatma’s ideas are internalized and cherished by his people. This is so unlike the lip service that many of us pay to our national heroes.

In India, I have come across images of Gandhi gracing the living rooms of private abodes. There are even affectionate nicknames for him – he is clearly a part of the family. How many of us in the Philippines can honestly say the same of Rizal?

More significantly, we can see that the admonition by the wise man in a loin cloth to use locally woven fabrics continues to be taken to heart. Indian men and women proudly wear outfits confectioned from their country’s traditional textiles. Gandhi clearly believed in the dignity of crafts. He liked to point out that the subcontinent’s future development required the revitalization of the age-old skills of the villagers.

The great statesman did not settle for empty statements. He literally took matters in his own hands, personally producing the spun thread that would be woven into his clothes. For this reason, the flag of India has at its center a circle with many spokes evoking not only essential classical tenets but also Gandhi’s humble spinning wheel.

It is not surprising then that in several major Indian cities there are crafts councils dedicated to preserving ancient techniques. In the same vein, one will find in the capital a wonderful showcase that celebrates the products of the artisans’ hands: the Delhi Craft Museum.

The Museum, ran by the Ministry of Textiles, was designed by a prominent Indian architect: Charles Correa. I have had the good fortune of seeing another of Correa’s exhibition spaces – the Bharat Bhavan in Bhopal. I still recall exploring broad spaces filled with light and grassy roof top terraces with an exhilarating view of a lake. I recall the care with which hand-fashioned items from faraway communities were displayed, allowing viewers to appreciate their intrinsic qualities: the humorous expression of a statue, the sensuous curve of a pot. It is the museum’s mission to ensure that craft pieces dialogue with contemporary paintings and sculpture.

Similar concerns may be discerned in the Museum in Delhi. The walls of the buildings are festooned with the colorful murals and relief work that decorate residences in rural areas. The displays are said to be organized along a central spine which traces a progression from the home to the village to the temple to the palace.

This spine provides a series of spaces for comprehending the contexts in which crafts are embedded in the lives of the people. There are exhibits of singular objects: a palm leaf fan embellished with intricate patterns, a granary of dried mud animated with marvelous figures molded by unschooled women. But there are also spaces filled with temple art as well parts of palaces illustrating how craft suffuses every sphere of life, from the personal to the political to the sacred.

Another institution dedicated to keeping alive Gandhi’s legacy is the Birla House, located in a tony section of Delhi. It used to be owned by one of the biggest industrialist families in India. The Birlas’ business empire has investments all over the world including the Philippines. At present, however, the House is better known as the Gandhi Smriti, to honor another former resident - the Mahatma who, sadly, was assassinated here.

Walking around the grounds I felt an odd sense of familiarity. This puzzled me until I realized that these gardens had been depicted in the 1982 Richard Attenborough film about the life of the beloved statesman. By virtue of the cinema, it almost felt that I had already seen this broad lawn, these bricked paths. It seemed like I had actually glimpsed the Mahatma’s face as the bullets tore into his chest.

Interestingly, the movie was released months before the Philippines would be plunged into its own epiphanies with the murder of Senator Benigno Aquino in 1983. Friends have told me that the vast crowds attending Gandhi’s funeral march as shown in the film reminded them of the masses of people that lined the streets as Ninoy’s and then later on, Cory’s, cortege passed by. Was life, again, imitating art?

Fully conscious of what these walls had once enclosed, I entered the mansion reverently. I fully expected a quiet, solemn shrine. To my surprise, I would find a glorious explosion of color and creativity.

Though the ground floor was conventional enough, all the action was on the second level. The exhibits here, inaugurated in 2005, utilize a wide range of media to make visitors understand the life and philosophy of Gandhi. What struck a cord was the fact that despite the contemporary forms, the spirit that reverberated throughout the different tableaux was vibrant with the village aesthetic.

I smiled when I saw relief stuccowork reminiscent of the walls of the Crafts Museum juxtaposed with computer monitors. Evidently the designers had wanted all India to take part in honoring their adored Mahatma. As the Museum website explains:

The works of scholars, artists, craftsmen, sculptors, carpenters, wood carvers, electronic designers, digital artists, animators are like a dedicated prayer towards a remembrance of the Gandhian vision.

I loved the little painted boxes inside of which were looping clips of the landmark Salt March. To challenge the Raj’s monopoly on this essential commodity, Gandhi organized non-violent resistance. Along a Museum corridor one will find a large jar filled with a fine white powder. Visitors were urged to feel salt in their hands, a sensation that no authoritarian power should be able to take away.

My favorite was a large frame of Gandhi’s smiling face. When you peered more closely it was revealed that the points of light in his glasses were really tiny screens. On these screens are replayed scenes from India’s recent history. So the sweeping events were just glimmers in the eyes of India’s loving Father. He knew that all existence was but a feather in the breath of Truth.

There were games to play, a train to ride. Everywhere multi-hued spinning wheels were turning. Children had been commissioned to design a kaleidoscope into which one could peer and be filled with wonder. There was even a harp shaped like the Mahatma’s silhouette with strings that, when plucked, played nationalistic songs. One was invited not just to observe Gandhi from a safe distance. We are asked to embrace him, laugh and enjoy with him, recreate and reinvent him.

Returning to the ground floor, this joyful cacophony was suddenly stilled. Here was Gandhi’s room as if he had just left it for his encounter with immortality. One is confronted with a life pared down to the spirit. The room is almost empty except for a mattress, three small tables and a spinning wheel. On the bare wall leans his walking stick.

Coming down from such a lively place filled with distractions, one is abruptly required to contemplate the benediction of simplicity. I could only sit in silence, mercifully, providentially, alone.

Then I saw it. On a white stand was the statue of the Three Monkeys, an exception to the Mahatma’s rejection of possessions. All at once, I was a child again, spellbound, listening to my own father. He was intoning the names of a trio of simians carved on the wall of an old stable in Japan’s Nikko: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil.

How strange that an image from so far away, from so long ago could suddenly span distances and decades to engender new meanings. Perhaps Gandhi saw these three as a reminder of the law of karma and the organic justice of the cycles of existence. Indeed, the epic film on the Mahatma’s life ends with his resonant quote:

"When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall — think of it, always."

Yes, we should all think of this.

Always.

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Website for the Gandhi Smriti is www.eternalgandhi.org, the paragraphs on the Delhi Craft Museum utilize information provided at the corporate website of Charles Correa, www.charlescorrea.net

Just How Good is Bonn?

Essay and Photos by Ino Manalo

When I learned through the internet that there would be an international Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) conference to be held in Bonn, Germany I decided to apply for the few scholarships being offered. Miraculously, I was one of those selected. I was given free board and lodging plus a round trip airline ticket!

After my initial euphoria, some anxieties began to arise. I would first be landing in Frankfurt with only a small window of time to find the airport train station and catch my rail connection. I would then be arriving in Bonn at about two in the morning at which point I would still have to take a subway and find my hotel.

How was I to manage all this in a strange new city?

I knew very little about Bonn. I vaguely recalled reading somewhere, how, in an effort to jazz up its image, this erstwhile German capital adapted a logo that featured its name with the letter “o” formed by a kiss. I am not sure whether this campaign worked. Did it generate a surge of lovesick tourists? I got the impression that only a metropolis which was so prim and dour would have resorted to such a public relations effort.

It turned out that I needn’t have worried. While I was trying to extract my prepaid train tickets from an automated consul in Frankfurt, a woman came up who offered to help. And when I was deciphering the instructions for the dispensing machine so I could get on the subway in a completely deserted Bonn station, a couple suddenly materialized, volunteering assistance.

Reaching my stop, I was met by the sight of a street that was eerily empty. Fortunately I found a store that was still open where I could ask for directions. Soon I was at my hotel where the manager had very graciously stayed up for me despite the lateness of the hour. Not long after, I was safe in bed. I was beginning to like this place.

Bonn was a delightful surprise. Knowing that, with the reunification of Germany, it would be losing to Berlin its status as capital, this modest sized city set about reinventing itself. It exerted a lot of effort to attract international agencies by offering buildings that had formerly been occupied by State offices. The move must have paid off. Today, there is no hint of having been deprived of past privileges. The town is comfortable and vibrant.

Among the city’s resources is its splendid setting beside a major waterway. What is significant here is that Bonn has embraced the Rhine. There are parks that run along the banks. There are docks so that people can go boating. Sleek vessels offer dinner cruises. How unlike Manila that has shunned its Pasig. What is it that has conditioned us to treat our rivers as dumpsites?

It was so easy to move around. Paths were well marked, orderly, and free of garbage. There was a city service that operated on tracks laid right in the middle of the roads. It was so convenient to ride unlike dark subways or sky trains that required one to negotiate endless steps. There was a lot of magnificent heritage architecture as well as broad swaths of green lawn which people clearly appreciated. I spied more than one carefree citizen who had removed his shoes, touching the grass with his feet.

Bonn boasts of a number of fine museums. Among those which I fully enjoyed were the science centers. The Deutsches Museum had displays of German inventions including computer components and the air bag. Meanwhile, the Natural History (also known as the Alexander Koenig) had huge stuffed animals arranged in life-like tableaux. I must confess that I have never been too fond of such recreations. They usually present historical events as stiff spectacles populated by macabre zombie-like figures. But admittedly, I did get a kick seeing these immense displays of mummified wildlife in Neo-Classical settings. How often does one glimpse an elephant beside a Corinthian column?

In honor of my late father who had been a violinist, I decided to check out the Beethoven House. Though the exhibits were quite ordinary, the real attraction was just to be in the same space that had once sheltered a great genius.

Even more entertaining was the district where the composer’s former residence is located. This is one of the hippest areas of Bonn. Many chic shops have creative sidewalk displays to lure costumers. I laughed at a table set with oversized cups and the statue of a cow with its head buried beneath the pavement. At the center of this bohemian neighborhood is the City Hall. Belying its officious functions, it was painted a lighthearted pink. Its rosy hue set the tone for the sunny square which it dominated.

By the time I entered the conference hall, I was relaxed and in high spirits. I was able to listen attentively as lecturers explained that ESD can have a liberating effect on students. For instead of the dumbing down that often occurs with more cliché educational approaches, ESD provides the novelty and the nuances that young people crave. After the plenary sessions and the discussion groups I made a beeline for the publications booths. Hundreds of teaching kits and books were being distributed for free. I picked up quite a cartload of materials knowing how useful these would be back home.

Perhaps the best part of the whole symposium was the field trips. I signed up to see an ESD teaching park out in the suburbs. It was a magical place. Our party of ten adults totally enjoyed playing with the interactive exhibits. The hands down favorite was a display that showed how much energy was saved by putting off an appliance. What was conserved could then be transferred to batteries which in turn could fuel a fascinating array of toys.

Returning to Bonn that evening, I fell to thinking that it is all very well to train students about sustainable development. Yet young people can only think about safeguarding resources for future generations if they feel secure about their own present. They need to be nurtured in an environment that respects their humanity,that allows them to understand themselves and their place in society while having fun in the process. This is where towns like Bonn have so much to teach us. It is a privilege to be in a place where the citizens are friendly and helpful because they know that they have little to complain about. It is a joy to be able to move around freely, see stimulating exhibits, sip coffee in front of a pink municipal hall, or bike beside a fresh stream. Yes, it is a pleasure to visit or even to grow up where everything works!

I understand that immeasurable differences in economic histories and population pressures are part of the reasons why Bonn can deliver such a high level of services to its people while many Philippine cities can not. Yet, we should still ask ourselves: would it have required a lot of money to watch over the Pasig so that it would not become the cesspool that it is today? Would it have required a lot of money to plan for and implement proper garbage disposal and recycling before the situation got out of hand?

Is it possible that what our leaders really need is more foresight, vigilance, and political will rather than funds?

Whatever it is, one can only say in the meantime: Good job Bonn!

Art and the Deluge in Florence

Art and the Deluge in Florence

by Ino Manalo


In the early morning light, when everything is awash in the beginning of a new day, the Arno looks so peaceful. Yet, just as Filipinos were unprepared for what Typhoon Ondoy unleashed, the residents of Florence could not imagine the devastation that their beloved river would cause. In November of 1966, after incessant rains, the Arno broke its banks and submerged the great city of the Renaissance. Much would be lost in terms of life and livelihood.

The flood is said to have reached levels above 20 feet as indicated by commemorative markers on the walls of buildings. One source narrates how women went crazy with fear, throwing things from windows while imploring for help to save their children. More than a hundred people would die. Whole communities were left isolated for days and vast tracts of farmland were ruined. It is estimated that 6000 shops had to close. From the stores lining the Ponte Vecchio, the flood bore off gold jewelry never to be seen again. Wanda Ferragamo reported that the shoes from their storage rooms were swept kilometers away.

The losses included cultural treasures. Millions of books were damaged along with about 14, 000 works of art. To this day, the crucifix by Giovanni Cimabue, though rescued from the rampaging waters and restored, still bears the marks of the flood. It hangs in the Church of Santa Croce as a testament to the power of the Arno

Even after the waters had receded, Florence’s ordeal was not yet over. The whole city was buried under a thick coat of muck and garbage. Fuel tanks had broken and oil had combined with the sediment to form a horribly corrosive mixture. Important masterpieces were disintegrating in this vile brew. How, many asked, would there be enough people to clean up the mess and restore order?

Fortunately, the world’s response to the call to save the Cradle of the Renaissance was overwhelming. The late Ted Kennedy remembers how, while visiting Rome on the day of the flood, he received a phone call from his famous sister-in-law, Jacqueline. She asked that he go on to Florence to help. Addressing the audience gathered for the anniversary ceremonies to commemorate the inundation forty years later, Senator Kennedy movingly recounted how, in the darkness of a ruined library, he saw that a human chain had been formed. Along this chain were carried, from one careful hand to another, fragile manuscripts to be liberated from the quagmire.

The Great Flood or L’Alluvione as it would come to be known would generate a deluge of concern. Miraculously, countless volunteers came from all over the planet to help the Florentines save lives and property. These heroes, many of whom were young people, would later be called the angeli del fango – the mud angels. Philippine art gallery owner, Silvana Diaz, who was studying in London at the time, remembers forming collection brigades for donations from Britain. In the end, the Italian students came up with a brilliant idea: they would generate assistance for Florence by rewarding donors with a most tantalizing prize - pots of home-cooked food!

The global outpouring of assistance clearly showed that the art of Florence did not just belong to the Florentines. It was the inheritance and responsibility of all humanity. Even before the city and its treasures were inscribed on UNESCO’s World Heritage List in 1982, the rescue efforts of 1966 had already demonstrated that, without a doubt, the whole world cherished Florence as its very own.

On the fortieth anniversary of L’Alluvione, about 2000 mud angels were invited back for a reunion. The whole city celebrated. Important buildings were decked out in bright purple lights, images were projected on walls, exhibitions were held.

Dark Water, a fascinating book by Robert Clark about the events of the flood came out in 2008. The cover carries David Lees’s haunting photograph from Life Magazine. It shows the matchless statue of David standing so alone, so vulnerable in a gallery covered with a layer of mud.

Looking at the picture, one is reminded of a poignant scene from the 2006 movie, Children of Men. The lead character, Theo, needing a critical favor, visits Nigel who is a very influential person in the film’s post-apocalyptic society. As Theo enters Nigel’s quarters, one sees in the background Michelangelo’s David with one lower leg shattered. It had been salvaged from the ruins of war, an indelible image of the chaos into which the world may so easily be plunged.

One shivers to think of what else may have been lost but for the heroism of certain people. In a 1967 article of National Geographic, the story is told of how the curator of Florence’s Museum of Science risked her life edging along a narrow ledge above the angry waters to save the telescopes of Galileo. One wonders, at first, why a person would face death to save an object. But then, realizing that through these lenses were glimpsed the images that would forever change humankind’s vision of itself, one understands the reason for such an act of selflessness and courage.

One of the most important legacies of L’Alluvione would be the many conservation techniques that were perfected to save ruined art works. A seminar that chronicled these conservation gains was part of the program for the Flood’s 40th anniversary. Among the methods discussed in the seminar were ways to remove frescos from crumbling walls, the mass treatment of water-damaged books, and the removal of stains and oils.

The restoration systems were so successful that when visiting the museums of Florence today, one will be unable to discern signs of the destruction of the past. Galileo’s telescopes again occupy a place of honor in the Museum of Science. Meanwhile, just behind the Duomo, in the Museo dell’Opera which has displays about the Cathedral and its many associated art works, a number of pieces on exhibit had actually been snatched back from the jaws of L’Alluvione.

One such piece is Donatello’s statue of Mary Magdalene. Another memorable photo, also from Life Magazine, shows this powerful work being conserved after its lower half had been corroded by the toxic fluids of the flood. Today, in its elegant, climate controlled setting in the dell’Opera, the statue is ready to move the viewer once more.

Donatello’s Magdalene had originally stood in Florence’s Baptistery of San Giovanni. The Baptistery is celebrated for its doors that had been decorated by Lorenzo Ghiberti. So beautiful, they were compared to the very portals of Paradise. The merciless torrents of 1966 wrenched open the doors and knocked off several of Ghiberti’s panels. They would have been lost had they not been kept back by a protective railing.

Wonderfully, the golden panels can now be seen again in all their splendor. They are displayed at the Museo dell’Opera together with the Magdalene and the original Baptism of Christ trio which used to crown the entrance to San Giovanni.

The Museo dell’Opera del Duomo has much more to offer. There is Michelangelo’s other Pieta which includes a figure that is thought to be his self-portrait. There are, as well, models of the Cathedral and the death mask of the man responsible for the Cathedral’s dome, Filippo Brunelleschi The church pieces are lovingly and thoughtfully displayed so that one understands the context in which they were created. There are even tableaux that show how the fragments from a broken altar could be arranged to give a sense of what the destroyed original may have looked like. Overall, the Museo is a splendid example of how a church museum can be set up – something that Philippine ecclesiastical institutions could learn from.

Among the many interesting exhibits, however, it is clearly the treasures that had been moved from the Baptistery after the Flood which form the highlight of a visit to the Museo. Part of their attraction is the memory of how they were almost lost one dark day more than forty years ago.

Fortunately, through the labors of countless unnamed individuals, that dark day is long gone. Where there was mud as well as debris and desolation, there is now air, brightness and hope.

Much of this hope comes from the knowledge that there are, after all, moments when the whole of humanity can still stand together. It is truly inspiring to know that once in a rare while, people from different nations will endure the unimaginable to save one more work of art.

(All photographs from 1966 are not by the writer and appear here as fair use.)