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SUCH a
loaded title...Pillow Talk. Three things came to
my mind as I received the text message from the editor
to cover the art exhibit of Ringo Bunoan. First, the
Japanese section in my mind conjured makura-e
(literally, pillow pictures). These are...uhm...sex
manuals first published during the Edo period
(1601-1868) of Japan that portrayed couples in sexually
explicit love scenes. (Strike one!) Second, the American
pop section in my mind clicked, dragged and opened an
image of a 1959 comedy film featuring, among others,
Rock Hudson, Doris Day and Tony Randall. Nope! Bunoan
is not all a film (re)constructionist. (Strike two!)
Third, the Anglophile section in my mind recalled a
dictionary entry and came up with: “private
conversation, endearments, or confidences exchanged in
bed or in intimate circumstances between spouses or
lovers.” Oops! That’s related to one and two, right?
(Strike three! Out!)
Well, I
am not at all exasperated. At least, I got the “mind
thing” right. And mind you (pun intended), it is of
utmost importance that one brings one’s mind to this
exhibit that explores, along with aesthetics, the
sojourn of the mind or the psyche and the unconscious as
it pleads for new ways of “seeing” and thinking about
reality.
Two
Years of Sleep,
the first item in the exhibit, belies again—at least in
my mind—a constructivist approach to expression. Three
mounds of raw cotton, kapok-like in color, texture and
in its twisted and uneven construction, preside over an
austere brown wooden table. To those unfamiliar with
postmodern approaches to visual arts, cotton may seem
rather odd for a medium. It is frail. It gathers dust.
And its instability as a material makes the artwork
decidedly temporary. This quality foregrounds the
construction(s) and theme(s) of the works that follow
this item. Materially, pillows are made of cotton (apart
from goose down, the colloquial “foam” and other cushion
materials). Symbolically, they are places of rest...ah,
perchance to dream, takeoff points for the journey of
the mind into what Carl Jung calls the “unconscious.”
More important, the piece asks the viewer to explore
possibilities of “seeing” just as the Zen garden of
Ryoanji (Kyoto) invites onlookers to see beyond rocks,
pebbles and moss. Are they mountaintops peeking through
clouds? Are they islands pounded by waves? Or, are they
tiger cubs with their doting Tigress mother? (I wonder,
at the risk of overreading, if the mounds represent the
Himalayas, a sight that must have accompanied Bunoan
during her two-year hiatus in
Kathmandu?)
Sleepwalking consists of a montage of six photographs
portraying the journey of a pillow. The first picture
situates the pillow at a curbside just outside a
driveway. This is followed by a pillow lying below a low
staircase, obviously an entrance to an abode. In the
next picture, the pillow “stands” on a landing of an
apartment entrance. Then, the pillow is seen “waiting”
outside a green gate. Afterward (assuming that a
chronological narrative or depiction is present), it is
seen outside another abode. Finally, the pillow “rests”
on a grassy sidewalk in front of another residence lit
from an unknown source. The effect of the montage is not
at all “cute.” It may even disturb some exhibitgoers.
But, surely, this simply cannot be dismissed as nonsense
or self-indulgence. What is the pillow all about? What
is the significance of movement in time and space? Will
the picture be as odd or as thought-provoking if the
figure of a person takes the place of the pillow?
Surely, with these pictures one can realize that a
pillow is not merely a thing. Or perhaps better said,
all things are symbols that come with meanings that are
collectively or individually interpreted. So, please, go
ahead and decide...what do you see?
The
theme of sojourn becomes more apparent in In the Same
Breath. Twelve pillows are arranged in a circular
pattern on the floor, positioned like the numbers of a
giant sundial. The onlooker’s initial amusement with the
seemingly playful ordering quickly fades upon approach.
On each pillow lays a picture of lapidas, grave markers
that effectively turn the installation into an
expression of the macabre. The different lapidas reveal
a Filipino manner of marking death: the way the RIP
sign slants in italics, the need to include a dedication
to a loved one lost, etc. Variations of the text also
reveal social status in the rendering of the text, some
painted, some in brass and some simply penned over.
(Yes, even in death one cannot escape class, a Marxist
interpretation to bone). Closer examination shows that
the lapida of Lourdes Amor Santos Bunoan appears
four times at 6 o’clock, 9 o’clock, 12 o’clock and 3
o’clock. Also, all the other lapidas indicate a shared
date of passing away: June 1, 1986...all “in the same
breath.” This piece makes one ponder about the
universality and, at the same time, particularity of
passing over.
The last
piece is simply titled Wall. At the far end of
the exhibit hall, Bunoan constructs a massive wall of
pillows in all shapes, sizes and colors. “Medium: used
pillows,” the exhibition notes state. What do pillow
walls keep in or keep out? What does a wall made of
fluff signify? Despite their seemingly formidable
visage, all walls crumble in time. Could this be part of
the message? Are the walls of our souls or of our minds
temporal? Are they like Bunoan’s Wall, mighty in
image but frail in essence? Bunoan invites all to have a
look and a moment of reflection.
The
worst evaluation ever given to me as a lecturer came
from a group of students in a university on Katipunan
fronting KFC. It goes: “Santamaria is a genius...[note
the ellipses] in his mind.” I came out of Bunoan’s
exhibit certain of her genius, doubtful of mine, but
highly relieved to know that I still have a mind.
Pillow
Talk
goes on until April 19 at the Silverlens Gallery:
816-0044, manage@silverlensphoto.com. |
