Scout: 2020 January-March

S CO U T M AG. PH

FREE MA GAZINE!

I S S U E NO . 3 8

YLONA GARCIA

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W W W . S C O U T M A G . P H

issue no. 38 origins issue

In this issue Walking on a tightrope 06 essay Paperback dreams 08 fashion Show and tell 16 culture Spotlight on the South 20 art Urban disruption 24 cover story Girl of the year 34 feature Hit vibes 38 game New Games Plus 41 feature Take no prisoners 44 culture Beki and the great gay anti-language 46 portfolio Baybayin: a renewal through art 48 music Rough cut 03 film

group publisher/executive vice president bea j. ledesma editorial manager eric nicole salta creative director nimu muallam associate editor rysa mary antonio junior designer zaila mae urmeneta junior digital associate antonio jose samaniego junior content creators giselle s. barrientos katrina maisie cabral jelou galang rogin losa staff photographers and videographers argyl leones, samantha ong, jp talapian, jonas timbreza, mikey yabut copy editors contributors

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board chairperson alexandra prieto-romualdez chief investment officer, inquirer group of companies j. ferdinand de luzuriaga chief operating officer, inquirer group of companies atty. rudyard arbolado svp/group hr officer raymund soberano vp/chief strategic planning officer imelda c. alcantara associate hr director ma. leonisa l. gabrieles hr services supervisor reynalyn s. fernandez executive assistant/ editorial content planner jill cruz head of operations and business development lurisa ann villanueva key account supervisor angelita tan-ibañez sales supervisor sarah cabalatungan senior account executive kyle cayabyab, xenia sebial, katrina denyse doromal account executives chloe dianne cartoneros, rose carina mamonong, anne medina, kimberly tañafranca, andie zuñiga

ON THE COVER Ylona wears Ha.Mu Photography by BJ Pascual Styling by Abraham Guardian and Mamuro Oki Makeup by Anthea Bueno Hair by Jay Wee With styling assistant Angel Guardian

patricia romualdez, catherine orda bianca serrano, celene sakurako, jorge wieneke v, romeo moran, worshipthegays, zofiya acosta ralph adrian regis

sales support assistant rechelle nicdao sales coordinator faith casido, trisha marie gonzales, maria erieka olitres marketing supervisor ziggy chavez marketing assistant demicah bedoya cassandra belcina junior designer eliel jeuz sayo production and distribution manager jan cariquitan production specialist maricel gavino junior multimedia artist michael christian yabut distribution specialist arnulfo naron senior distribution assistant angela quiambao liason associate rosito subang

For general inquiries, email us at scoutmagph@gmail.com or scout@hinge.ph 4F Media Resource Plaza, Mola cor. Pasong Tirad Sts., Brgy. La Paz, Makati City

@scoutmagph #ylonaforscout

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Binisa

Letter from the Editor We are greater than the sum of our parts.

It takes a minute for that to sink in, doesn’t it? Probably because it’s easy, expected even, to assign our value as a person to specific aspects of our life. The understanding that we could be inherently important, despite the miniscule parts of ourselves, is an elusive concept. That's why there is a lot of value on our personal narratives—our beginnings. This issue, we explore this truth by taking elements that broke barriers, set standards and rewrote rules, then we examine their most integral parts.

In an ideal world, origins would have a set standard: humble beginnings with a clear goal guiding its trajectory. But in this reality, at least for most of us, our jump-off points are often messy, unpredictable and less-than-ideal. Or so we thought. As we produced the stories in this issue, we found that some origins can take root in familiar directions, while there are beginnings that branch into unexpected twists and turns. We also featured those in the middle of their own origin stories, in anticipation of every which way they choose to grow their branches.

This is not about history or choosing to be defined by home— quite the opposite, really, because we want you to see what we saw as we worked on this issue: that we do not make it because of where we come from but rather, despite it.

If you are not where you want to be and your starting point is less than ideal, do not worry. Wherever you are now is simply a part of your journey in becoming more than its sum.

Best of luck.

Rysa Illustration by Eliel Jeuz Sayo

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Binisaya in Escolta

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Walking on a Tightrope Binisaya in Biliran

The Binisaya Film Festival grew from pop-up screenings in beaches, rooftops, basements and basketball courts. How did founder Keith Deligero go against the tide?

Words by Jelou Galang Binisaya in Lucban The first time I had to meet filmmaker Keith Deligero, I almost bailed.

I was in my third year of college, and the Cebuano directorwriter was invited by my Philippine Cinema professor as a panelist for our makeshift student film fest. Lined up in her laptop were the short films we made, serving as our final project for the semester.

None of us were film majors—the majority was required to take the subject, and I took it as an elective.

As each film was screened, the pair who made it had to listen to Deligero’s feedback—along with the whole class. Despite being an aspiring filmmaker, I found myself hesitating to submit our film.

Aside from a sudden change of script that made us cram the whole movie, we had to make do with a very low budget and lessthan-ideal equipment. My classmates had DSLR cameras, while I could only use our old family Handycam. Of course I was grateful to be able to use something, but I still felt a little behind my class.

As the credits of our film started to roll, I knew we were facing our doom. Deligero would probably talk about how the editing was subpar; how the story was cliche as fuck; how the shots were too grainy; how the lighting was non-existent; how we didn’t know what we were doing. But just like the redeeming arc of a comingof-age story, he didn’t say any of those things.

Instead, Deligero asked about my influences in writing the script, saying he saw different chunks of world cinema in our film, which then led us to discuss the local and foreign flicks we used as references in our student film. “It’s not a bad thing,” he clarified.

His feedback ended with him helping me understand the potential I had in storytelling—starting from what I knew about film and the resources I had. Heck, he even praised the old Handycam quality I was stressing over. Who knew my first faceto-face session with a filmmaker wouldn’t involve my dreams going down the drain?

It was only hours after that face-to-face when I realized Deligero was the one who spearheaded the Binisaya Film Festival in 2009. Every year, typically during the third quarter of the year, Binisaya heads to different schools and institutions to showcase

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regional films that go against the (commercial) tide. According to Bisaya.org, the film festival “aims to develop a uniquely Cebuano sensibility” through its showcase of films—ranging from Bisaya flicks to Global Cinema—unrestricted by the pressures of commercialism. These constraints may be the “walls” they’re pertaining to in their Facebook page description: “breaking the walls of Filipino cinema.”

One of these films is “To Siomai Love,” a 30-minute short that looked like it was shot using an old-school camera, giving off a VHS quality. Although steeped in romance, it used unfamiliar faces for the main characters and hammered no tropes in the story—just some magical realism rooted in gayuma. It also probably took just one take.

Films like “To Siomai Love” made me interested in independent cinema. I watched the comedy “Julie,” which tackles a construction worker’s coming out story. I saw “Biyernes Biyernes,” “Sabado Sabado,” and “Domingo Domingo,” feature films that weave different narratives of Cebuano filmmakers—from political satire to coming-of-age.

All these films have been screened at the Binisaya Film Festival, a movement that started in 2009. Binisaya is an organization that promotes, exhibits, distributes and archives Cebuano and other Bisaya films. Its inclusive nature in bringing out regional stories reflects its yearly lineup, so that even if you’re not a local or have never even been to the place the film was shot, the narrative still hits home.

“Every time I finish a film, I always say to myself that this will be the last one. But here I am,” says Deligero. Peeking into his portfolio, you’ll see “A Short History of a Few Bad Things,” “Babylon,” “Lily,” and the memorable “Iskalawags.”

Deligero’s stellar filmography might hide the struggles he underwent just to get his name out there. His 2019 QCinema short film “A Short History of a Few Bad Things” bagged nominations for Gawad Urian for best film, direction, and editing. Another one of his short films, drama-sci-fi “Babylon” also bagged a Gawad Urian nomination for best short film in 2017. But he reveals, behind all

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these awards, that he never had it easy. “In 2007, my friends and I made the short film ‘Uwan Init Pista sa Langit.’ That was our film school. No workshops, no film school, only that.”

“I have watched TV all my life. I mean, everything that is on TV, even those I don’t like. And I don’t like most of them,” Deligero quips, recalling what might have sparked his interest in film.

“There was only one clear channel, and that channel was from Bacolod, not even Cebu. The other two channels were bathing in VHF noise. I can probably enumerate old TV commercials more than anyone I know. Growing up, I think, I might have wanted to be a director for TV commercials. Maybe that was the reason why I took fine arts in advertising.”

During a talk at the .GIFF Festival for New Cinema in 2019, he revealed that he made his own makeshift video equipment—a way of upgrading his style without going over budget. Deligero’s unorthodox encounter with filmmaking also reflects the origin of the Binisaya movement, which started out as a “DIY film festival.”

“Back when we started making films, there were no local Cebuano platforms where we could screen the films we made.

We had to do it ourselves. Little did we know that the pop-up screenings we did at the beach, on rooftops, basements and basketball courts would turn into a film festival,” Deligero says.

“Since 2005 to 2009, I have been forcing my friends to make a filmmaking scene in Cebu. The persistence turned into Binisaya in 2009. My friends Remton Zuasola, Idden de los Reyes and Darcy Aguedo—who were also filmmakers—also forced their friends.” This network of collaborators made it possible to screen different narratives. When they were starting, Hollywood-inspired, telenovela-esque, and mainstream Manila-looking films were being screened. “I think this is because these are what we were exposed to,” he says.

But as years went by, Cebuano filmmakers, the audience and the organizers themselves were exposed to the infinite possibilities of cinema.

“Binisaya has always been keen on challenging the way we view cinema by putting together an experience that champions Bisaya films along with films all over the Philippines and Asia,” Deligero explains.

In an interview with a Cebu-based publication, Deligero made it clear that “we’re not looking for the best film. We’re looking for strong voices.” And it’s true—Binisaya has always been accepting of films “no matter how long or short it is, whether it’s mainstream or avant-garde, crowd-pleasing, or mindfuck.”

Aside from giving young filmmakers a voice, Binisaya also “gave young filmmakers and the audience a party to experience new cinematic inventions.” When you try to submit a film to Binisaya today, you’ll read that they consider “other forms of cinema you invented” a genre.

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Keith Deligero during the Binisaya selection process On Binisaya’s Facebook, you can join their ongoing open call for films this year, with a deadline unannounced as of writing.

When asked how he was able to gather a community, Deligero answers, “I don’t know. It just happened. Maybe it was the right timing.”

But that doesn’t mean it was a success with a snap of the fingers. Binisaya survived many problems. “If we get some funds, then good. If we don't, we still do it anyway. When a bunch of people do something passionately, that passion becomes infectious. People will come and volunteer to help with no strings attached.”

This year will be the 10th edition of the festival, and Deligero will be directing for the first time—and it’s “still fucking DIY.” “I think what makes contemporary [Cebuano cinema] distinct is that it’s just developing,” Deligero says, adding that even if it’s been strong for decades, it still nestles in the margins of Philippine cinema. “It's a minority. Therefore, it’s not yet tainted by commercialism. Cebuanos can make whatever the hell we want to make. We can invent our own cinematic language. We are still unconsciously inventing our own clichés.” Binisaya has introduced a new generation of Cebuano filmmakers and inspired a new wave of storytellers from the Philippines.

Streaming sites are popping up faster than ever. But nothing beats the experience of cinema. Lucky for us, the Binisaya movement has been dodging the bullets of commercialism and continuously serving quality stories and experimental devices from different voices. Making a mark in the film industry feels like a trip to the moon, but the festival’s origin tells us it’s okay to start small—even if you’re a beginner filmmaker with a diverse mix of influences.

“It's going to be hard. All the forces will be against you but if you are passionate enough, nothing will stop you. But if you want to save yourself the trouble, just relax and watch a movie,” Deligero says as I finally ask him for filmmaking advice. Because the first time I had to meet him, I almost bailed. This is probably every beginner’s dilemma when meeting their heroes of sorts—afraid that an encounter might make or break their long-kept aspirations.

But this Cebuano filmmaker’s coming-of-age story, in the context of cinema, trumps our worries.

My conversation with Deligero ends with him promoting the Binisaya Film Festival and all its online platforms. This signifies that just like many of us—beginners or not—Binisaya is still a work in progress. ■

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Paperback dreams As print was beginning its decline, we were passionate, young creatives who wanted to resuscitate publishing—even if it meant making our own magazines

Words by Jelou Galang Art by John Ray Bumanglag It was decided: I didn’t want to be successful when I became an adult.

I wanted success the same time most teenagers wanted success–right at that very moment. I had decided, setting my sights as high as I could, that 2015 was going to be the year I revive print. A tall order for any established publication, let alone a 17-year-old, but I didn’t let that stop me. While people of far-off generations tried to figure out what to call us (Gen Zs? Millennials? A bunch of entitled kids?), we busied ourselves trying to achieve “success” or rather, success as we perceived it: reviving a “dying” industry.

The realization dawned on me when I visited a decade-old magazine stand in a popular Makati mall, one that I went to every month during high school. There I bought new issues of print mags I swore by, and I was amazed with every flip of a page. I called it my regular weekend routine; the thought of holding a new copy always sent me to the moon and back. The middle-aged woman who sold them was thoughtful enough to remember my favorites.

The old “ding!” of Facebook Messenger marked what I thought was the start of my success story. “Something Spectacular,” I named the PowerPoint presentation I sent to our high school barkada group chat. No hints, no warnings. Just the thrill of having them open it made me want to jump out of my rusty computer chair. Seen by three people. Let the clickbait work.

It was 2015. The presentation I sent came with a formal message that looked weird for a group of friends who always banter and tease each other: “I have a proposal. Why don’t we make an online magazine?”

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In less than a week I managed to drag three of my friends to a now-defunct milk tea shop, solidifying their commitment to “Something Spectacular.” Each of us sat in our sweat-soaked uniforms, having spent two hours commuting from different universities in Metro Manila. This was the first time we had seen each other since college started. Funny how it was a business meeting of sorts. I was on the edge of my seat, presenting the full structure of our publication: our editorial board chart, a list of categories, and a blank slide to build our vision-mission on.

With my passion fueled by different online websites I contributed to (and was grateful to have learned from), I finally decided to be the founder of another. You could say this was extremely spontaneous, but for me, it felt like an eruption of long-built frustrations.

Around 2013, as the weight of technology hoisted itself everywhere, I witnessed my favorite magazines’ slow decline.

The decade-old magazine stand even lost the titles I honestly didn’t notice before. No hints, no warnings—just a head helplessly shedding hair.

I should have known, right then and there, that print was slowly dying. Debates about this gradual demise sparked in the early years of the 2010s. It was talked about by major publications like The Guardian and The Washington Post. It was alarming, but the symptoms were there. Would I stop seeing magazines completely?

Those questions led me to create Charlie ’n’ Charlotte, our online magazine. I don’t remember where we got its title, but Charlie means “man” and Charlotte means “free man.” We wanted to be an escape portal for the passionate youth—particularly those

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who thought their ideas were “caged in a blank room.” Or at least, that’s what our site said.

Settling on a name, goal, and overall aesthetic at our first meeting convinced me that this project was for the long run. Making my own magazine sounded both exciting and cathartic. This would be my “success.”

This was a time when everyone praised kids who achieved so much at an early age. The wunderkinds. The prodigies. Their names were in the headlines, and we were obsessed with them—child stars, young entrepreneurs, the 30 under 30. And if Tavi Gevinson—who started Rookie magazine at age 15—became successful, why couldn’t I? I wanted those shiny badges for myself.

Eventually, online magazines became the publishing world’s salvation. Stache, which dedicated its content to the creative youth, became my favorite publication to download from Issuu. Every issue was filled with fantastic photo essays and sharp visuals. Manic Pixie Bakunawa, an art and literary website, never fell short in serving Philippine literature so engaging you’d find yourself waiting for the next update. There were The Thing and Rumination, which—in their own unique voices—served a hefty amount of pop culture stories and thought-provoking insights. These were all made by kids like us.

Little by little, they resuscitated publishing’s last lung through collaborative effort and a genuine drive to create. Seeing your printed name on a page suddenly felt like a very real possibility, as you were assured that your essay, poem, short story, photo or video would be seen by just clicking “send.” Independent publishing became an open option—it encouraged more freedom in content and form. The sense of gatekeeping suddenly vanished.

Charlie ’n’ Charlotte also found a spotlight of its own. I invited more people to join—college friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends. We celebrated when we were visible enough to be invited to events; we all got stressed thinking of a story lineup for each week. What theme should follow after “Discovery?” Who would be free to do another photoshoot?

We would change our profile pictures in sync just to promote our upcoming theme. We would commute for two hours again just to meet each other at a café and secretly record snippets for our social media platforms. I don’t know how we pulled it off, but we’d also meet at 9 a.m. in a McDonald’s just to settle on website adjustments.

Youthful ambition was the steam that kept us going.

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But even the brightest of spotlights fade through time. As 2017 creeped in, I witnessed online magazines’ eventual decline—I’m not sure for what reason. For our makeshift editorial vision, personal struggles started cropping up. It was a mix of schedules that suddenly weren’t meeting and growing commitments in other aspects of our lives. It was after the commitment started waning that I learned even creativity is a group effort, too.

My “success” was supposed to start with “Something Spectacular,” marked by the old “ding!” of Facebook Messenger.

My heart was secretly broken for a couple of months, thinking I was a failure. Despite all the forms of gratification Charlie ’n’ Charlotte had provided, I was so absorbed in making it that I never took the time to notice all that surround it. What is a tiny affirmation here and there compared to single-handedly reviving print?

But as I moved forward, little achievements started to get my attention. Seeing my high school and college friends—who first met through Charlie ’n’ Charlotte—keeping in touch online. Receiving a request for collaboration from a girl I didn’t know just because she saw our “nice work” in the mag. Finding out a teammate included Charlie ’n’ Charlotte on her LinkedIn profile years later. And oh, we used the term Something Spectacular for a couple of years in our barkada when we wanted to open up about ideas we believed in.

Articles in HuffPost, The Guardian and Gateway Journalism have said “the death of print doesn’t have to mean the death of publishing.” It’s funny how in retrospect, we all took part in saving publishing in our little ways. It’s come full circle, and it’s delightful to see that times have changed now.

Wunderkinds, prodigies, and successful young people aren’t meant to be living guidebooks. There are circumstances we can’t control—like the privilege we’re born with—that play a huge part in how and when we get our goals. I was in such a hurry to become a big name out there, and I know other people were, too. No one told us to pace ourselves. Unlike now.

Maybe it’s still true: Now that I’m an adult, I have realized that there’s more to life than “success.” Maybe I just wanted to create things that matter, make things move, keep things alive. And maybe I—together with the youth that tried to save publishing—have already started it with the work of our words. The same way we protect our heritage, history and identity.

New Radicals was right. Kids, we have the dreamer’s disease.

And it’s pretty contagious. ■

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The youth of today is gayer than ever, just as they should be Words by Rogin Losa Photography by Worshipthegays

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In the houses they grew up in, coming out w as not a primetime telenovela episode.

Grade 10 Rizaleños Sean Fieldad and Kenneth Pelorina harnessed the energy of Dua Lipa’s “IDGAF” at a young age. In the houses they grew up in, coming out was not a primetime telenovela episode. It was filled with love and makeup tips from the women in their lives, specifically their aunts.

“Grade 7 pa lang ako, tinuturuan na ako mag-makeup ng tita ko, inaahitan na niya ako ng kilay, tinuturuan ako mag-lipstick para matuto na raw ako,” explains Kenneth. “Alam na nila na bakla ako simula bata pa lang.” As for Sean, he discloses how open his family was to his identity. “Since makeup artist po ’yung tita ko, lagi ko po siyang nakikitang nagtatrabaho,” he says. “Doon ako nagsimula.

Eventually, na-in love na rin ako sa makeup.”

Self-discovery and DIY glam summarize their senior high school life. Instagram beauty gurus became their go-to guides.

They taught themselves to create makeshift contours out of cocoa powder and watch friends do their brows with Dong-A sign pens. Their daily classroom mug consists of mascara, brow gel and a little lip balm. But when school’s out—so are they.

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But when school’s out— so are they.

“Grade 8 po ako noong first time akong nagfull glam. Nag-dress ako, ’tas nag-heels ako, first time ko mag-wig at mag-makeup. Tinitingnan po kami,” recounts Kenneth. Expressing yourself has taxing consequences. For them, it’s the judgmental stares and scoffs they had to endure even before they reached college.

“Sinisigawan kami ng ‘ay, bakla!’ Hine-head to toe pa kami.”

Do they ever wish they traded pumps for kicks? Keep their ’fits a little more lowkey? “Sa panahon po ngayon maraming judgmental na tao, so sobrang dami po nilang sinasabi,” shrugs Sean. Kenneth continues, “Parang mas gusto ko po na wala na lang silang pakialam.”

With queer photographer Worshipthegays, we take a look at these students’ lives as they unapologetically feel their oats in and out of school halls, judgmental looks be damned.

They’re young and queer, and as Ariana Grande would say, “And what about it?” ■

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Putting Putting the the spotlight spotlight on on the the South South Run by DJs, MCs and dancers, Laguna Hip-hop is ready to break borders with their growing community

Words by Bianca Serrano

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Laguna Hip-hop is spearheading the south’s takeover with undisguised beats and raw rhythm.“Hip-hop lets you create something. Your personality and individuality come out through your art, whether it’s breakin’, MC-ing, graffiti, or DJ-ing. I guess all of us have our essence when it comes to this culture,” quips Mavey, one of the dancers from the Prain Props crew in Laguna.

The musical outfit isn’t technically an official group. “We all do our own thing, but we also collaborate on some songs.

Technically, we’re not a rap group, but we carry the name Laguna Hip-hop when we get invited to some gigs,” clarifies Gnarrate, emcee, and gig organizer for Dank Kalabaw.

From organizing gigs and acting as an emcee with Dank Kalabaw, to collaborating with Jaga with the MFS, and smashing the records with Embi Steady, Laguna Hip-hop is a well-rounded community motivated by cultivating their culture.

Spitting bars and exchanging stories through their rhymes, the artist collective started as a Facebook group back in 2017. “Hip-hop in Laguna are equally divided in their genre. But when it comes to performing for and with each other, we make sure to show how Laguneños live for hip-hop,” shares Jaga, emcee of MFS, proving that there can be unity in chaos.

After pooling musicians, emcees, dancers, and listeners at every street, the group finally launched Laguna Hip-hop Nights at Jacques’ Bar, where different flavors of hip-hop blended under one roof.

Now, they’re on their second anniversary, and the scene is just getting bigger. “I can’t speak for the whole province, but we curate each event in Los Baños and make sure it’s a safe space for people.” True to their word, Laguna Hip-hop proves they’re out to support fellow artists and enthusiasts as guests found a haven in Fête de la Musique when the group hosted it back in June 2019.

Taking musical cues from leading purveyors in the scene, from the King of Rap—the late Francis M to Bambu and BLKD, there was plenty of inspiration to breed the group’s fascination for the culture of hip-hop. “Support the local scene all the way. Popular hip-hop artists and the entire culture won’t be recognized if not for the support of our community!”

Growing older, their prompts were drawn from radio hits to real-life struggles concerning poverty and corporate greed—a reality that fuels Laguna Hip-hop to put their perspective in candid bars.

“Here in UPLB, conscious rap is more prominent as compared to gang-related rap in other places. People are also more participative in our community—be it rap or dance cypher.”

They earned their credentials down the streets as they pop verses that put a perspective on social issues and strike a chord beyond the clout. “Maybe because of the nature of our country—the third world, oppressive policies, corrupt government officials,” says Embi Steady, DJ from the Wiwicked and Dank Kalabaw.

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Emcees: Trvmata, Gnarrate, $oulja444, Embi Steady, Trvmata and Buensa

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Trvmata

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“The tracks Filipino rappers produce are more gutsy and critical when calling for change.”

The group can’t refrain from making a change, and everyone is set to break the stereotype plaguing the hip-hop culture in Laguna. “Nag-start naman ang hip-hop sa ghetto. So nagmumukhang jeje kasi mahihirap ang nagsimula,” Mavey shares, but their diverse and unapologetic movement proves they are an emerging genre of hip-hop.

“Filipino rap has these specific words that are very flexible for constructing rhymes, making creative lines, metaphors, wordplay. With Tagalog, we can kill any beat,” he says.

Manila is home to a concoction of harmonies coming from different scenes— from indie to soul to electronica to hip-hop.

The spotlight may be on the capital of the Philippines, but there’s a storm brewing in Manila’s southern borders—and Laguna Hip-hop is at the forefront of the scene with polyrhythmic beats, loaded lyrics, and just pure excitement for the local scene.

“I want to take part in the development of hip-hop culture. Actively participating in any way I can is a direct help in the local scene. I want to share my knowledge with those who are already in the scene and those who might be interested in what I do,” says Embi Steady. With such a welcoming vibe and inspiring mix of artists, dancers, emcees, rappers and DJs, we’re sure Laguna Hip-hop is just about ready to steal the stage. ■■

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A N B DIS R UP T I O N As street art falls into the trap of commercialism, collectives like koloWn of Cebu reclaim urban spaces through works that dare to disrupt Words by Katrina Maisie Cabral Photos courtesy of koloWn

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“Gold Digger” found in Australia

Across Cebu City’s Archbishop Reyes Avenue stands a stretch of walls, appearing as a stark contrast to the gray slabs and concrete pavement surrounding the road— spraypainted art in vibrant colors, insignias that could stop traffic. These walls stand opposite an imposing government building, as if they were unashamedly challenging it.

In Cebu, artwork greets you once you’ve stepped onto its streets. On my route out of Mactan-Cebu Airport into Mandaue, I’m welcomed by graffiti on worn walls, closed garage doors—spraypainted forms scribbled on famous monuments and next to high-end hotels. Driving towards the strip to Cebu City, these pieces stretch endlessly along the road.

As with any developed area, the street art of Metro Cebu pervades its corners and finds its way to main roads.

Cebu is labeled the oldest city in the Philippines, but it’s one filled with urban modernity, signified in the art that lines its streets. Even its jeepneys, shaped differently from their Manila counterparts, appear like mobile canvases embodying the city’s culture with amazingly spraypainted bodies that would put any “Pimp My Ride” auto revamp to shame.

Street art chooses the city as its domain, as the hub of the powers-that-be and as symbols of economic and political might, now defaced by the oppressed through artistic revolutions occupying the streets.

The street art movement finds its roots in 1970s New York, born out of hip-hop’s graffiti. Originators like Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Futura 2000 painted the city with anti-establishment messages that pushed corporations off their pedestals. Much like the ethos of hiphop, the movement placed its communities in the spotlight.

But as street art and the cities that contain them develop, so have the very corporations they fight against. With the street art movement gaining ground, establishments have caught on, so much so that it has led to its appropriation in ads.

Street artists are then commissioned for commercial work—and for all intents and purposes, this co-opting has worked. In an article that appeared in In These Times (“Street Art Used to Be the Voice of the People. Now It’s The Voice of Advertisers”), advertising psychology professor Francesca Romana Puggelli claims that these ads are effective precisely because they don’t look like ads. “Consumers, particularly younger people resistant to traditional advertising, don’t think ‘what does this mural want from me?’” she says.

Below: An installation from the series “Uling”

“Street art is in its early stage as an art movement. Society is accepting it, but mainstream reactionary society will appropriate it.”

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22 art

For a bustling metropolitan like Cebu, falling into the traps of commercialism seems like an inevitability. But amid crowds that pander to consumerists come groups that stand firm against the tide, pushing critical thought to the forefront of street art.

One such group is the koloWn collective, an anonymous street art group that started in 2007. They adapted their name from Colon, the oldest street in the Philippines found in downtown Cebu that sought to honor its namesake, Christopher Columbus. For koloWn, their name played into the idea of colonialism, as they reclaim Cebu’s streets by “kolown”-izing its spaces through their art. Their logo draws attention to anti-commercialist implications: a crossed hammer and pickaxe, where an upside-down version of the Golden Arches lies in between. When asked about its origins, koloWn replies, “People were giving [fast food] coupons in a mall when we were conceptualizing for a painting. We made use of the image and contrasted it with rural imagery,” they explain. Their friends picked up on its possible critique of colonialism, although that wasn’t koloWn’s intention at that time. “We got into street art because of the lack of space for exhibitions in Cebu during that time, but along the way, we discovered its freedom and spontaneity.” koloWn finds random objects in streets, turning them into something new and transformative, be it burlap sacks filled with trash wrapped with a bow or banana peels on posts beside their spraypainted insignia. “We see the street as one of the spaces for our intervening works,” they say. For the first part of the last decade, koloWn was focused on putting their name out there—and quite literally—through posters and graffiti around the city.

For a collective running for 13 years and counting, they have witnessed the growth of street art in Cebu. “The aesthetics are more accepted and [street art] has become mainstream now. You can see the style bleeding into galleries and café murals,” koloWn says. “Street art is in its early stage as an art movement. Society is accepting it, but mainstream reactionary society will appropriate it.”

Finding murals in commercial spaces is indicative of this appropriation, a product of the Instagram age where artwork serves as photo backdrops. While work gains mainstream exposure, the tenets of street art are put at risk. “Recognizing street art’s potential to draw money to an area, city governments and business communities have exploited street art aesthetics and apparent cultural capital as central to generating commercial activity,” says the Street Art Museum of Amsterdam. “While, once again, ignoring street art history as anti-advertising, cultural criticism, and social activism.”

Co-opting street art meant that the mainstream benefited from the favorable part of the movement—the aesthetic— without having to acknowledge the gritty side of it. On one end, graffiti meant vandalism and urban decay. Consumerism can shrug this off, drawing on the so-called good sides and taking advantage of a cultural movement. “This might be the end of street art’s countercultural essence when the big corporations are starting to use it for their ends,” koloWn says. “In the last decade, we’ve seen a lot of issues arise on that topic. From Shepard Fairey and other big names supporting an election campaign to street art festivals funded by property developers, they result in the movement being involved in gentrification. Big brands have also used street art as a backdrop for their commercials without

A printed output from the “Brunswick” series

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koloWn's installations located in the streets of Dumaguete City

artists’ consent.” As for those artists who accept commissions from big brands, selling out is another contentious hot topic.

“Artists need to live, so it’s hard to comment on some artists doing corporate commissions,” koloWn says. “In a way, if we are not part of the one percent, [it’s like] we [have to] sell out. As long as capitalism exists, any countercultural movements in the future will be subjected to it.”

In a piece for The Conversation (“From dissident to decorative: why street art sold out and gentrified cities”), academic Rafael Schacter mentions that corporations commission artists as a way to draw creatives to economic hubs, creating a false sense of authenticity in urban spaces and using it as a way to build wealth underneath it all. “Street art and street artists today are employed to accelerate the process of gentrification,” he writes.

Artists continue to toe the line between selling out and keeping it real. For some, commercial street art isn’t something that could be resolved overnight—but as the Street Art Museum of Amsterdam says, we as consumers play a part in pushing its misuse just by participating in it, one Instagram shot at a time. Still, with collectives like koloWn, art continues to fight The Man the same way—with works that dare to criticize, despite whatever corporation appropriates their movement. As for what koloWn thinks the future holds for Metro Cebu and its street art scene, it’s as much of a mystery as anything else. ■

“Street art and street artists today are employed to accelerate the process of gentrification.”

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After years on hiatus, 17-year-old Ylona Garcia has found her way back to her ďŹ rst love: music SCOUT 38 FIRST PROOF.indd 24

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On a warm Wednesday afternoon in Makati, I found myself talking to Ylona Garcia about the most peculiar topic: Naruto.

“This is my role model in life,” she gushes about the titular character of her childhood show. We were 40 minutes into our conversation, chatting in the dressing room of BJ Pascual’s studio as a whirlwind of preparations happened around us.

Clothes were picked out and hung, cheek kisses were thrown around in greeting, and the space was charged with pre-shoot tension.

Seated in the makeup chair in sweats and a plain blue shirt tied into a crop top, Ylona grins at me with a bare face as she talks about the fictional character, unfazed by the maelstrom behind her. “When I was growing up, [I loved] his perseverance and belief in himself even when others thought he was just plain stoops,” she laughs.

The Japanese manga series was, and still is, a worldwide phenomenon. Naruto is the fourth best-selling manga of all time, and is an international success with its English volumes reaching USA Today and New York Times bestseller status multiple times.

The reason might be that at its core, Naruto is an inspirational coming-of-age story that transcends cultural borders. A boy staying true to himself on a journey that provided many opportunities to do the opposite. In the end, Naruto’s reward for his resilience is being able to claim his destiny.

It’s a story that resonates with Ylona, considering her steadfast approach to her larger-than-life dreams.

Words by Giselle S. Barrientos Photography by BJ Pascual Produced by Rysa Mary Antonio Styling assistant Angel Guardian Makeup by Anthea Bueno Hair by Jay Wee Creative direction by Nimu Muallam Sittings by Jelou Galang and Rogin Losa

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Ylona knows the necessity of putting in the work, both from personal experience and stories of heroes. After all, she herself is a juggernaut when it comes to pursuing her already robust career. “Every day is a crazy day. Every day has a story to tell,” she tells me when I ask about her schedule.

And it’s to be expected—the 17-year-old is juggling multiple endorsements, finishing her sophomore album, and flitting from shoots to appearances, making a name for herself along the way. It’s been five years into the game, and she isn’t losing steam anytime soon.

At age nine, Ylona Jade Garcia decided to be a global pop superstar and set the wheels of her fate in motion. She began performing in her home country of Australia, fronting for Filipino acts like Sarah Geronimo, Bamboo, and Martin Nievera for their Australia shows.

It wasn’t long until a TFC executive noticed the then 13-year-old and invited her to audition for a second special teen edition of “Pinoy Big Brother” in the Philippines.

“If I make it in, then I'll be one step closer to reaching my dream. And if I don't make it in, I can keep studying and finish high school and then work on achieving that dream, so it's cool,” Ylona recalls. The universe must have felt her resolve to be an artist and sent a big break her way, which, even if it didn’t come, she would have molded her own destiny anyway.

Soon, she passed the auditions and flew out to the Philippines to enter the Big Brother house in 2015. During her stay, viewers lauded her mature outlook in life and her undeniable musical talent. She finished the show as first runner-up, and from there took the momentum to launch her career.

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“Every day is a crazy day.

Every day has a story to tell.”

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.”

Fashion by Abraham Guardian and Mamuro Oki of Ha.Mu

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“If you're dissappointed because you feel like the people you love aren't giving you the love you deserve, then be the person to give yourself [that] love.”

An indispensable ingredient in an inspiring protagonist, as many superhero stories have taught us, is unquestionable integrity. From Krystala to Super Inggo, Captain America to Spider Man, Wonder Woman to Black Widow, it’s a given that to be the hero of your story, you must always make decisions worthy of one.

Out of curiosity, I asked her what she would be in an alternate world. After a thoughtful pause, she responds, “You know, I don't want to imagine my life in another way. I think that kind of means that I'm just doubting what I have right now. I really just want to be an artist.”

Such clarity is rare for someone her age. Teenage years are often marked with uncertainty and, on some level, an aversion to planning the future. Then again, who said Ylona was a typical teenager?

Adolescence under the critical eye of the media can snuff out the highest of teenage ambition. An unfortunate occupational hazard of the industry is being vulnerable to uncalled-for ridicule and discrimination, and it almost swept Ylona with its current once upon a time.

In 2018, a barrage of negative messages affected the young star’s mental health, which resulted in hospitalization. She shared a post on Twitter urging everyone to stay in tune with their state of mind and, at the very least, be kind on the internet. “I forgot about myself,” she wrote, and used the experience as a lesson to her followers.

These days, Ylona focuses on herself as much as she does on dreams. “At the end of the day, when I self-reflect, I always try to make sure that I'm mentally, physically, and emotionally okay with everything. [That] I'm aligned,” she says. She’s more selective of projects she takes, and the future is now all about putting out work that she genuinely wants. And finally, she’s coming back to music.

Ylona released three singles in 2019, which was preceded only by her 2016 debut “My Name Is Ylona Garcia.” Since dabbling in different genres with her debut record, from acoustic ballad “Stop Think” to funky pop “Not Yo Bae,” she’s now steering her sound towards R&B. “I always knew that my heart belonged to R&B, soul, pop,” she says. “Now, I feel a little more confident on where I want my music to flow.”

Ylona’s love for music is beyond doubt.

She perks up at the topic of inspirations, rattling off her current favorites: Billie Eilish, Jessie Reyez, Ruel. As I begin to ask my next question, she cuts me off with an excited “Oh!” and adds Joyner Lucas and, unexpectedly, classical music to the list.

“There's so much passion in classical music without even speaking. It makes you think that life is actually beautiful,” she muses. During the course of our conversation, I noticed how Ylona often went into little soliloquies. On the topic of values, she whips out her phone to read out jottings on her Notes app like a true child of her generation.

“If you're disappointed because you feel like the people you love aren't giving you the love you deserve, then be the person to give yourself [that] love,” she reads. Then another.

"It doesn't matter what you make. The most important thing is always the foundation. If the foundation is unstable, even tall buildings will collapse."

Her thoughts read like a young person who’s experienced one too many heartbreaks for her age. Ylona is legally about to become an adult by the time this issue comes out, but she certainly has the outlook of one already.

“I definitely felt the pressure to grow up faster in the industry, because of course, you want to make sure that you look prim and proper in the eyes of social media,” she says. “But it doesn't mean that you have to grow up quickly.

There's a certain difference between what you have to do and what you feel pressured to do.”

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32 cover story

“There's a certain difference between what you have to do and what you feel pressured to do.”

It’s a lesson that a public figure like her has to learn early and never forget.

Pressure can go two ways in Ylona’s line of work: Push just enough and you can rise to greatness; push an inch too far and you can cripple them indefinitely. “One time, I got really burned out and I was really sad. Really sad. I couldn't speak for two weeks,” she says. Her solution was simple. “Reading books, like actual hard copy books.”

Ylona also credits yoga and, more recently, crystals to keep herself grounded. They’re understandable remedies, with all of them being solitary hobbies away from the mud-slinging war grounds of comment sections and underhanded tabloid sites. “You live and you learn,” she often repeats. Along with her aspirations of being a successful global pop star, she also really just wants the simplest of dreams: serenity. *** “My wish is that my dad would be able to cook for me forever,” she decides when I ask her what her 18th birthday wish would be. “I know that one day, of course, you know, parents aren't always gonna be there, and I'm gonna have to live in my home. But I just hope he can cook for me forever.”

To reach her dreams, Ylona Garcia really only needs the support of her family first and foremost, then her team, which includes her fans. Everything else—courage, talent, kindness, and laser focus—she already has.

Ylona is at the final leg of her own coming-of-age, with a sense of selfawareness that she’s worked for tirelessly for almost half her life. It’s a comforting thought that the new generation of youth will have her to look up to as she enters adulthood. The world, and more desperately, the entertainment industry, is in dire need of a leader like her. ■

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34 feature

Hit V ibes

Etha Rom

At the birth of internet music, three Benildeans formed Young Liquid Gang, a music collective that helped bring then-popular Soundcloud genres from URL to IRL Interview by Rogin Losa and Jorge Wieneke V

What does growing up back in 2010 sound like? Asking different people will give you conflicting answers. But if you asked budding producers around those years, they’ll probably say this: It sounded like the internet.

In the early 2000s, music journalists coined this sound “hypnagogic pop.” It branched out to microgenres that found homes in platforms like Soundcloud. Vaporwave, seapunk, chillwave—you name it. The Guardian defined the phenomenon perfectly, “its delirious lo-fidelity, its fondness for the obsolete formats of our youth—was the same.”

A lot of college kids found themselves drawn to this new sound. The budding musicians and artists from Young Liquid Gang (YLG) were no exceptions.

“The YLG sound is internet music being brought to life through live performances and gigs,” defines music producer Moe Cabral (youngsleepyboi). “YLG paved way for bedroom producers who make internet music to venture out more on the internet and outside the internet.”

Siblings Zeon Gomez (U-Pistol) and Rome Gomez (No Rome) with their friend Ethan Namoch (COEXIST) formed this music collective in College of Saint Benilde. YLG focused on these emerging genres from the internet. They had no elaborate schemes to take over the local gig scene. Back then, they weren’t chasing any scene clout nor were they racking their brains to get radio play.

YLG’s co-founder Zeon keeps it on the humble and describes themselves as “a bunch of kids goofing off.” But for producers like Jorge Wieneke V (similarobjects), “They were setting a different standard and broke stereotypes that came with being a beatmaker or a laptop artist. They pushed kawaii music, PC music, abstract beats, post R&B, futurism, chillwave, weird-pop and beyond.”

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The circle was made up of a lot of budding electromusicians turned household names: Lean Ordinario (Loner), Leon. E (f.k.a. SOUL_BRK), Hana Acbd and her band Spirit Ocean, Valiant Vermin (Bettina Campomanes), Cabu from Majestic Casual, Local Disk C:, s a r s i, and What is Andromeda.

During their three years as a collective, they did more than experiment with then-popular Soundcloud genres.

The kids from YLG proved local electronic music is no one-trick pony. And for that, it’s worth looking back on this collective’s peak—who gave the likes of No Rome and Valiant Vermin their start—before blowing up.

Let’s look back and celebrate YLG through anecdotes from past members, archived gig posters, and personal snapshots.

What was YLG’s origin story?

Ethan: I always say it started with the friendship! Zeon and I tried to form a duo before. It was notable that we were sort of unmixable ‘cause we were both trying to do our own stuff. But after a year, we discovered this friendship we never knew would be found in one another. Both of us were fine being each other’s sidekicks. Then, I began knowing and loving his family too, with Rome in the mix—then the rest was history.

Hana: I met Zeon through a friend. My friend told him that I played music–I only did covers at the time–and we bonded right away. We became Spirit Ocean and made some dreamy songs together. He also managed me when I decided to create music on my own.

Bettina: YLG caught wind of my work when I started posting music on Soundcloud back in high school. Rome reached out, asking if I was interested in joining the collective and meeting up. I hesitantly agreed because I had never met anyone off the internet before. But what ultimately moved me was the collaborative aspect of the group and the love they had for creating.

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Ethan Namoch (COEXIST), Zeon Gomez (Moonmask) and Rome Gomez

Rome Gomez (No Rome) and Bettina Campomanes (Valiant Vermin)

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36 feature Zeon Gomez (Moonmask), Bettina Campomanes (Valiant Vermin), Ethan Namoch and Mao Alducente (What is Andromeda?)

Artists from Young Liquid Gang: Ethan Namoch and Mao Alducente (What is Andromeda?) Bettina Campomanes (Valiant Vermin), Hana Abcd, Zeon Gomez (Moonmask) and Rome Gomez (No Rome)

YLG formed at a time when vaporwave, seapunk, and other internet genres were gaining traction. What was the appeal of these sounds to YLG members back in the day?

Zeon: It was new and exciting. They were visually and audibly pleasing. We were meeting people online from all over who were spearheading these new sounds. There’s something about witnessing a new subculture form into a huge movement. This is how we found our roots and started our own individual sounds as well.

Ethan: I used to love listening to chillwave until now [laughs]. I was making different stuff with my music. And then, I suddenly had the urge to make a chillwave track with my vocals. I remember trying to push a track to its completion without having anything but a makeshift microphone and a free version of a DAW on a barely running PC. It still sounded good to me in a way. Ang weird kasi pag chillwave, we crave that filth or imperfections on a track.

How would you describe a classic YLG gig?

Zeon: It was empty—that’s for sure. The only time we had a crowd is when we played for events we co-organized or someone organized just for us. Our first night was a free night at Saguijo after Christmas.

Leon/soul_brk mid-performance

We tried live streaming our shows because that’s how it was done in the SoundCloud communities we were part of. Artists back then would play Tinychat or Ustream shows like spf420, which I was lucky enough to experience.

Ethan: I remember holding The First Kitsune, which was really scary. But it made me closer to everyone in the collective.

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feature 37 I remember working on those physical copies of samplers we were giving out for free ’cause we thought it would be cool to give free music. In Taft where most of us study, we would hold YLG Tuesdays from noon to whenever. We’re not even making music. Just joking around, drinking milk tea and having cigarettes were the best for me.

What’s your most memorable gig with YLG? Hana: It would be the Buwanbuwan Collective x YLG gig Moonwater because it was my first one.

Zeon: Doing a hentai/seapunk/vaporwave night at Black Market. There was a time when anime, low-poly 3D, and data mashing were a hit online. And to be able to do those visuals at a half-empty Black Market, while playing all the then-popular SoundCloud genres was something else.

We also had a lot of airtime abroad through guest mixes in American college radios. Some of the mixes are still online.

We had a lot of artists who were appreciated by local media, such as Hana Acbd and Valiant Vermin. Some of our members became part of Internet-based labels, who housed vaporwave artists like Saint Pepsi, Ryan Hemsworth, and Meishi Smile.

Ethan: My most fond memory was probably right after my first EP release. Bong reached out to me, so he can play for Heima Block Party ’cause Rome screened my stuff to him. I was anxious. It was my first time playing in front of strangers and I had no gear to play on. And then, that time I realized all I needed was a voice to perform. I kinda mustered this confidence to just sing in front of everyone.

Did you expect YLG to grow the way it did?

Zeon: Not really. It started out as a friend group type thing in Benilde. But the more we learned about the scene outside our campus and met artists from different schools, we started to hope that maybe it could be bigger online.

Bettina: The three years I’ve spent with the collective were one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life. They gave me a reason to explore art beyond what was introduced to me in school or within the confines of my small social circles.

They really helped me hone my genre and appreciate different sounds. It made me feel more liberated. It was all so exciting, like being on an artistic high.

When did you arrive at a decision to go your separate ways?

Zeon: When our members started working with internet-based labels abroad. Some of our members migrated to different countries as well. Everyone started to have their own thing and that was kind of the goal, really.

There was no need to hold onto YLG. It wasn’t gonna push us forward. You need to accept when it’s time to put something down, too. I felt like if we kept going the way we did, we would’ve been stuck in a comfort zone, never to progress.

With a lot of former YLG members’ successful solo ventures, would you say their time in the collective contributed to their growth as artists?

Zeon: The mere fact we’re in a collective, sharing the same mindset was already a big help. We could call each other out when it comes to quality and pushed each other to explore what the internet can offer us. We understood and learned about the subcultures we were interested in.

It kept us grounded learning that the music community we can be a part of is so much bigger than Manila. It kept us from feeling like we were hot shit, just because we had 10 DJ gigs no one actually cares about at a big club.

Hana: I met and became friends with great people who also happen to be musicians, visual artists, and creative types. They really helped shape the music I make and listen to today. I can honestly say that it was the most bountiful, crazy, exciting and interesting years of my life.

Could you tell us a little bit about the mini-reunion at the Buwan Buwan x YLG show back in 2018?

Zeon: It was fun and tiring. It was nice to see the ones who came home from abroad, but it wasn't a real YLG reunion show, to be frank.

I was just glad to see Ethan perform again.

I don’t think we could ever recreate that fun and young energy, the way we tried to put our weird niche visuals and playing genres from the internet. We’re definitely not trying to play vaporwave in 2018 [laughs].

Looking back on YLG's time in the scene, what do you want it to be remembered for?

Zeon: Just a bunch of kids who had fun seeing discovering what’s outside of Manila IRL and URL, making the most out of what we had.

Bettina: Today, we’re all in different places. But I don’t think any of us forgot about our roots. We’re all still very much creative people and sometimes we still talk here and there to catch up and whatnot.

Some of us are in different countries pursuing new things or the same things. I’m now a cinematographer based in NYC, but I’m still pursuing music on the side.

Everyone else still holds their art close to their heart in one way or another. I think that’s an incredible and noteworthy thing. ■

Ethan Namoch (COEXIST) and Bettina Campomanes (Valiant Vermin)

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New Games Plus This new generation of Filipino-designed games is ready to push our culture to a discerning gaming audience Words by Romeo Moran

Mamayani

Filipino fans of role-playing games (RPGs), a pretty wide and diverse genre that encompasses a lot of styles, will be thrilled to get their hands on “Mamayani.” Born as a thesis project by designers Robin Greyson and Meam Genovaña, who wanted to show the rest of the world that women weren’t just passive actors in history, “Mamayani” is centered on a newspaper delivery girl who makes her way through an unassuming yet impactful adventure involving Filipina historical figures—and the making of crucial choices that affect how the story unfolds.

“We were both interested in history and the thought just passed us that we never really heard much about different women doing different things besides medics, mothers, and supply-gatherers,” said Greyson. “So, as a passionate answer to this thesis problem, 'Mamayani' was born, seeking to help more people discover the less-recognized heroines of Philippine history that are just as important to our

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country's heritage as all other heroes in the textbooks.”

The game’s charm lies not only in its clear Japanese RPG (JRPG) influences (which includes the “Pokémon” series and “Earthbound,” some fans will be delighted to know) and the lightly sepia-tinged palette lifted from period films, but also its immediate impact on our awareness of female historical figures and history in general—which even male gamers, a majority audience with a less-than-stellar reputation, were warmly receptive to.

“When we found out the impact it has had on people outside school, that it went quite viral, we knew that it had become bigger than we envisioned it to be for thesis,” Genovaña said. “We felt the pressure at first, but we figured that this was a way we could give back to the community and teach the next generation in our own way, so we thought, why not keep it going?”

And so the quest to explore everything “Mamayani” could start now. Now that there are no more (or at least, fewer) pressures, distractions, and challenges life in college could throw at them, Greyson and Genovaña could develop the game into everything they’ve wanted it to be—with more time to write and research better, and perhaps more resources to hire a bigger team and build a better game.

“There is still so much potential for improvement, and rather than giving into pressure, we are more excited to see how far we can take ‘Mamayani’ and how much more it will help the next generation by making it more accessible and engaging,” said Greyson and Genovaña.

The ambitious scope Greyson and Genovaña have laid out for “Mamayani” is definitely exciting, and if they can pull it off, it would open video games up as an accessible and engaging tool for education. Watch out for the full release of “Mamayani” soon.

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Taste of home Cooking has been a part of video games ever since we could remember—there’s just something about the way you have to get everything right, from the ingredients to how the dish is cooked, that translates perfectly to the thrill of a game. Now, local game outfit Meowfia Games wants to add a distinctly Filipino flavor to cooking games with the delicious-sounding “Taste of Home.”

Also a school project that’s growing into something bigger, the recipe of success for “Taste of Home” is simple: you play as aspiring cook Maricela and gather ingredients from all over the Philippines so you can prepare regional dishes.

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“‘Taste of Home’ was initially called ‘Lutong Bahay’—a small game we made for Global Game Jam 2019.” According to Meowfia Games, “We decided to expand the idea for our thesis because we love food, and we think that cooking, as a genre, is not as explored in the local game industry.”

If you see “Cooking Mama” in the gameplay of “Taste of Home,” you’re not far off—the classic Nintendo DS series served as the main inspiration for the game, along with “Imagine Happy Cooking,” and the same functionalities that made dish preparation such a joy on handhelds heavily influenced the way “Taste of Home” is played.

“We wanted to maximize the functionalities of mobile devices like touch controls and the gyroscope feature to create a more immersive simulation of cooking, the same way ‘Cooking Mama’ and ‘Imagine Happy Cooking’ utilized the capabilities of the Nintendo DS,” they said. “Designwise, it was difficult to find the balance between accurately simulating the cooking experience and creating minigames that are challenging and fun to play. We wanted to make the players feel like they're actually cooking, but at the same time we didn't want them to feel bored by simply following on-screen instructions.”

Of course, not only is the game mouthwatering, but it pays enough respect to the different flavors and meals that make up the diverse Filipino cookbook.

“We drew inspiration from television programs that put Filipino cuisine front and center—like Netflix’s ‘Street Food’—which teaches viewers how to cook Filipino dishes, and present their historical and cultural origins.”

At the moment, “Taste of Home” is still a thesis project being developed into a full release, but hungry and salivating gamers can expect a demo sometime this year.

Should the game be a success, it would help blaze a trail for projects with clear Filipino cultural branding—and with its simple formula, there’s no reason why gamers both casual and hardcore wouldn’t take to it.

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Tadhana When you talk tabletop RPGs, there’s only one true king of the roost: Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), which is currently experiencing a bit of a renaissance with Filipinos—both gamers and non-gamers.

But even though D&D is the most common tabletop game being played around, it’s certainly not the only one in its genre— and the genre is certainly open to innovation.

Enter the ambitious Tadhana, a Filipino mythology-based hybrid tabletop/card game, the brainchild of designer and lead writer Nathan Briones.

Like D&D, players of Tadhana create characters of various races (lahi) and job classes with which they can play campaigns and adventures involving tales of gods, mythical creatures, monsters, and other mythological beings. The stories take place in the land of Sekunda, a vast world of five continents and three moons—that’s a lot of space for many tales to be weaved.

Where the game differs with its predecessor is the way it’s played. While D&D is famous for using a set of many-sided dice to determine various outcomes, Tadhana uses a card-based system in conjunction with encounter prompts both in and outside combat called Trials of Fate. This, according to Briones, is to make gameplay simpler, more flexible, and less random.

Briones, a teacher who’s been playing and seeking solace from obsessivecompulsive disorder in games since he was a kid, created his own tabletop game after not being able to afford D&D’s dense (and expensive) material.

“I was infatuated with Dungeons & Dragons at the time but I couldn't afford to buy their books. I had to suffer poorly scanned pirated PDFs. And I realized I could use the game mechanics of RPGs to gamify my classes and incentivize my students into actually learning their lessons,” said Briones. “Overall, the game was a success with both my game groups and my students.

I learned a lot of things with the experience, and the game essentially functioned as a prototype which ultimately led to the creation of Tadhana.”

Fortunately, Briones received a lot of positive feedback for Tadhana from both tabletop casuals and veterans alike, mostly due to the Filipino flavor.

“When it comes to lore, D&D players were often intrigued by the use of Filipino

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mythology as the game's inspiration instead of the more common Western/Tolkienesque RPG tropes,” he shared. “The novelty of the scenarios and cultures explored in Tadhana's campaigns are often the biggest sources of enjoyment for these players.”

Of course, learning and perfecting game design wasn’t a simple overnight experience—Briones had to hone his games through actual gameplay, feedback, and criticism. Tadhana itself is an ever-evolving work of progress.

“Right now, the main goals of developing version 2.0 are having a more professional look for the books, more balanced gameplay, and expanding the game's resources and lore,” said Briones. “With improved mechanics, more inclusions from Filipino lore and mythology, and a better presentation, we plan on releasing the game's digital version sometime soon. No one said Tadhana needed to stay in tabletop form.”

The wonderful thing about this is that Tadhana is but one part of Project Tadhana, the team behind the development of the game, and its goal of helping expand Filipino tabletop games. They’ve got other projects of various genres in the works.

“We've already showcased several of our prototypes in previous conventions and events like ESGS,” said Briones.

“Tayog for one is an abstract strategy game similar to chess. TYLZ is an experimental... errr... social game project?

And finally, Takipsilim is an upcoming tRPG that we're already playtesting with gamers who are fans of social horror, modern supernatural, and noir genres.”

Between Tadhana, Project Tadhana’s full slate, and a robust local tabletop scene which sees fruitful collaborations with creators in different media industries, there are a lot of reasons to support it and other Filipino-made tabletop games.

Tadhana is available as an Adventurer’s Kit, a starter pack with everything you’ll need to play the game with friends, either online at DriveThruRPG.com or at gaming events Project Tadhana participates in. ■

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The proverbial history book of Filipino hip-hop is filled with one thing: a long list of men. Not only that, but there’s also a deep-rooted misogyny in the culture that many of the people thriving within it have yet to confront. Considering the predominantly macho culture of rap makes the feat of any female rapper that much more impressive.

But there is no one more attention-grabbing in recent times than Alex Bruce. Hailing from Batangas, the young emcee first made waves in the music industry at age 11 with her fiery bars laid over trap beats—a genre which has its foundations in subject matters of drug use, violence, and promiscuity.

The irony is evident once you see Alex off-duty, as she transforms from a rising rap star to a regular preteen girl named Thursten Alex Bruce. Who would think that a child would have the capacity to flip the script of hip-hop and reject themes of discrimination and violence that reappear in its music time and again?

Alex is creating her own rules by rapping about empowerment—embodying all of the attitude the genre has, but none of the dirt. “What I don’t like about hip-hop is dissing each other, raps about disrespecting women, and anything related to violence,” she tells us. She aspires for singularity apart from the material wealth braggadocio that dominates hip-hop. She’s in it to let people know she’s the “illest” not because of a Ferrari, but because she’s unapologetically herself.

When asked who her inspirations are, she mentions a slew of powerhouse all-female rappers. Some of the first names that come to her mind are Nicki Minaj, Cardi B, and Missy Elliott, the influences of which you can hear from Alex’s rapid-fire cadence and onstage attitude. Her current favorites to listen to are Karmin (now performing as Qveen Herby) and CL. But the icon who started it all for her was Filipino-American emcee Ruby Ibarra.

“I love her because she’s so natural. I love the way she writes, her multisyllabic rhymes, bars, flow are mindblowing,” Alex says. She first discovered Ruby while nurturing her growing attraction to hip-hop on the internet, beginning to rap at just four years old. Her parents first got her into the genre, with her father being a former rapcore group member and her mother an avid fan of R&B. Upon chancing on Ruby’s music, Alex told her father that she wanted to be just like Ruby.

Filipino-American emcee Ruby Ibarra is creating a space for herself in the male-dominated American hip-hop scene while carrying her heritage with pride—a feat not easily achieved. She was born in Tacloban in 1991, then migrated to

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San Francisco at age four, struggling with issues of identity as she transitioned into a land where she was a minority. Her family brought with them a copy of Francis M's "Yo!" Through this tape, she had a piece of Filipino culture to hold on to. A few years later, she would grow to be a prominent voice in contemporary Filipino hip-hop.

Even if she grew up in America, Ruby expressly makes it a point to uplift her heritage, most especially the Filipina.

“Island woman rise/walang makakatigil/Brown, brown woman, rise, alamin ang ’yung ugat,” she sings on her single “Us.” Its accompanying video, which she also directed, features 150 women from different Filipino cultures and generations in traditional costumes performing local dances.

Ruby herself wears traditional Waray clothing as she spits bars of Filipina empowerment, almost like a message to privileged sectors that being a minority is not synonymous to being weak. In fact, it’s what makes brown-skinned girls like her shine.

It’s easy to see how young girls like Alex would want to become like Ruby, because even an innocent child like her felt the gravitas of Ruby’s messages.

Many years later in 2018, Alex found herself rapping Ruby’s bars for the official “Here” music video, and got the chance to perform with Ruby herself at a homecoming show of hers. “This is so emotional,” she confessed to the crowd—which included Ruby Ibarra—before spitting like she had been performing for years. Mid-song, she pulled Ruby onstage and they finished the track together. They ended with a hug, with Alex thanking her Ate Ruby, one generation passing on inspiration to the next. And so Filipino rap had a new queen in the making, set to push back against its culture of discrimination.

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feature 43 For Alex, hip-hop should be all about the culture and not the cred. “I like the hip-hop scene because of its art—from dancing, to music, fashion, and the street culture,” Alex tells us. It’s easy to see her love for the culture since she herself oozes hip-hop, being both a dancer and emcee with street style fits to match. Already at home in the scene since age 10, it seemed almost as if she was born into the rap game.

But just when I had started to believe that she was a bullet-proof prodigy, the 13-year-old rapper confessed she also had to deal with bouts of nervousness. “It was a nerveracking moment, I [felt] like [I was] gonna vomit,” she tells us about her first performance. “But soon as I spit my first word, my Kraken within takes place.”

The Kraken, a mythical sea monster known for its capacity for destruction, is Alex’s personal “beast mode.”

Like all her songs say, she wants everyone to find their own Kraken within and release it.

“Gonna break the boundary, look at me/Spitting multi with symmetry/Simply serving my mastery/With sultry spices and energy,” she raps on her debut single, “Dopest.”

Alex says that her tracks are about proving herself and the power of the youth. “It’s all about the swag,” she laughs.

Although Alex stands no more than five feet tall, her bars and energy elevate her into a larger-than-life figure. Such is the power of music, and a Filipina empowered.

Outside of the stage though, Alex could still be just like any other kid. Her Facebook page bio says she’s interested in owls and unicorns, right next to writing bars, of course. There are moments between interviews where hints of a childish meekness slip out—when she swivels her chair in excitement or looks to her parents in the audience for reassurance—to remind you that she still is a young girl. And if a child her age can understand messages of discrimination and learn to reject them, then so can—and should—all of us.

When we asked her what her plans were for this year, she told us she wants to double everything she’s done before.

“Alex Bruce 2.0 is coming your way,” she says. Alex, born Thursten Alex D.V. Bruce, already has accomplishments on par with peers double her age. She’s newly signed to Sony Music with a video and single out, has thousands of monthly listeners on Spotify, and has played venues like the MOA Arena. And she’s only just begun. ■

Words by Giselle S. Barrientos Interview by Rogin Losa

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Words by Zofiya Acosta Art by Josh Panaligan What comes to mind when someone brings up gay lingo? It’s churva, right? Beki? Images of leggy pageant queens and their adoring fans? For me, whenever the topic of local gay lingo comes up, I remember something an old friend of mine said in passing when I first got her hooked on “RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

“I like this because I can understand this, unlike that churva speak.” Other times, my mind wanders to an old clip from an episode of “Banana Sundae” where Jason Gainza, in full babydrag, translates common words into gay lexicon. That’s it, that’s the segment. Let’s put a pin on that. Our local gay lingo comes by different names, and like many other languages that grew organically, the language predated each one of its names. There’s swardspeak, which comes from the archaic slang word “sward” meaning “gay man.” There’s also bekimon and bekinese, which are far more familiar to our generation, beki being the current favored term for gay men (or at least, a specific kind of gay man). According to Daryl Pasion, assistant professor at UPLB, the name of the argot depends on which generation is using it, with a common thread being to name it after the popular way of saying gay. “In the future perhaps, there will emerge a new term for gay and that will give birth to yet another word for gay lingo,” he says.

There’s no real timeline on exactly when the language was constructed. Swardspeak was coined by film critic Nestor Torre in the ’70s, but people were already speaking it long before then. The ’60s might be a good estimate: “The sixties may be taken as the relative time frame in which the conceptual history of Philippine gay culture, to an estimable degree, begins,” wrote J. Neil C. Garcia in “Philippine Gay Culture: Binabae to Bakla, Silahis to MSM.” This was also the decade when trans singer and actress Helen Cruz, who is sometimes credited a pioneer of the argot, came into prominence, which lends credence to that.

Still, “it is difficult to pin down how and who exactly started it,” says Pasion. “Like most slangs, the transmission of gay lingo is viral. It is passed down very quickly through orality, and the direction is not unidirectional. The transmission goes in all directions. While it is difficult to pin down who exactly started it, it is not difficult to see how it flourished. Showbusiness is one. That’s where most of the names we hear in gay lingo came from. Hargado Versoza for haggard, Smelanie Marquez for foul-smell, etc. Today, social media is playing a big role, we have bekimom on YouTube, foreign vloggers speaking gay lingo, etc.” So maybe the when isn’t as informative as the why of the language. It is, first and foremost, an anti-language used by a community that continues to be disenfranchised and discriminated against. “Gay lingo is used as a secret language of the gay community to cloak their intimate conversations when they are around people who do not belong to their community. It is anti-language because it is anti-society, meaning it was born and formed in opposition to mainstream society, the heteronormative society.

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To form a collective of the minority under an oppressive society is itself a form of resistance, an anti-status quo.

Gay lingo bred exclusivity and it helped gays resist being assimilated into an oppressive culture. The language was a territory, an exclusive safe space for them,” says Pasion. In truth, I think this is why pop culture is so important to the development of the language, and why the evolution of one equals the evolution of the other. I can’t obviously speak for every single queer person that exists, but growing up queer, many of us use TV, movies, music, and literature to train ourselves for the life that we’re about to live. It’s aspirational, but also a matter of survival; being able to decode “Agua Bendita” as a supremely gay text uniquely comes in handy when you’re in a bar and hitting on the wrong person can mean waking up with a black eye the morning after. And so of course the language used to shelter the community would be one that takes shape by playing with pop culture. It’s both our shield and sword.

Through its use in mainstream (a.k.a. heteronormative, heterosexual) culture, its radical origins have been somewhat obscured in favor of a beginning that is apolitical: Look at the happy gays and their funny little language that we can pick, choose, and pass judgment on. This apoliticizing is the same as allowing TV stars to say “maki-beki,” while in the same breath denying the LGBTQ+ community its rights. Pasion points out that gay lingo bleeding into mainstream culture has its positives. “The assimilation of words like char, chorva, hagardo versoza, etc. to our everyday language is a product of our exposure to people who use gay lingo. It’s a product of our interaction and exposure to this community, whether in physical spaces or through mediums like television and social media, or even radio. We can look at it positively in a way that the integration of their language into our language is also the integration of themselves in our consciousness.” In short, gay lingo bleeding into mainstream pop culture means gay culture is becoming more and more visible, and more queer people are being given platforms. *** I have a confession to make: I say “we” and “us,” but the language doesn’t really speak to me, or constructed with me in mind. “Bekinese” is the language of a very specific part of the queer community, mostly gay men who are feminine-atcenter and defy societal expectations through the way they express themselves. In fact, “baklang babae” doesn’t mean queer woman—it’s often used to describe flamboyant women who, though they might also defy societal expectations, are still cisgender and heterosexual.

I point this out not to rag on the language for not being inclusive (controversial opinion: it doesn’t have to be), but to highlight that even in radical queer communities, there are blind spots. And oftentimes, these blind spots are used to divide us. Is it a coincidence that a culture that treats gay men as a spectacle and gay women as nonexistent champions a language that is both loudly queer and shuts out a huge part of the queer community? I don’t think so. ■

“The language was a territory, an exclusive safe space for them.”

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Baybayin: a renewal through art Filipino-American Baybayin artist Kristian Kabuay talks about Baybayin as a didactic art form that bridges past and present Words by Celene Sakurako The explicit blood-like ink splats, stylized bold brush strokes, and vivid drips of paint stains that flow from the tip of Manila-born, San Francisco-bred artist Kristian Kabuay’s calligraphy brush may look like crafted nonsensical strokes to the naked eye, but to the trained eye, they spell Tagalog words in one of the Philippines’ pre-colonial ancient scripts, known as Baybayin. Influenced by graffiti as well as traditional Asian calligraphy, Kristian’s work is a fusion of old and new.

Every stroke, every mark, every character, is an ode to his birthplace—a way to reconnect with his roots and fulfill a constant yearning to understand his cultural identity as a Filipino-American immigrant from the early 1970s.

To Kristian, being a self-taught Baybayin artist is more than just creating art that incorporates Baybayin. “At surface level, it simply means that I write Baybayin artistically. On a deeper level, I help connect Filipinos to their culture and ancestors.”

“My art is didactic in nature,” he continues. “My works both entertain and instruct, while exploring themes of identity, poverty, death, love, and duality. By blending the ancient script with contemporary aesthetics, my work bridges time and

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space as well as challenges the necessity of economic value to prove our cultural heritage worthy of preserving.”

While it may be odd for many to think that a FilipinoAmerican who grew up abroad has made it his mission to preserve and educate other Filipinos about a forgotten culture, Kristian finds it logical. “I have the privilege to explore and practice our culture. Most Filipinos in the Philippines don’t need things to feel more Filipino because they already live there, speak the language, and deal with the realities that prevent them from exploring these types of things. Most people back home have to deal with the harsh realities of life. There’s little time to do so; three-plus hours a day in traffic kills culture. My art was borne out of the diaspora experience I went through. Art is a tangible way for me to reconnect with my culture,” he says.

Now, his artwork can be found as permanent tattoos on the skin of other Filipinos; on restaurant signs such as Kaliwa, Pepe’s Kitchen, and Guerrilla Street Food in Washington, D.C., London, and St. Louis, Missouri respectively; and on walls as murals in places like Rideback Ranch in Historic Filipinotown, Los Angeles, and the Salesforce Transit Center in San Francisco.

He’s also performed live calligraphy in San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum and conducted workshops and talks across Europe and in Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Stanford, and U.C. Berkeley.

Since publicizing the official website Baybayin.com in 2007, he has built an automated Baybayin-teaching bot on his own Facebook page (m.me/baybayin) that teaches a five-day crash course on the basics of Baybayin for free, and started an all-Baybayin publication called Surat magazine in 2017. Currently working on an updated “Introduction to Baybayin” book, a film titled “Sulat ng Malansang Isda,” officially launching his online school for Filipinos bred abroad called Balay School (balayschool.org), and an upcoming move back to Manila, Kristian sat down with us to talk about his humble beginnings and eventual “irrelevant” ending.

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When was the first time you encountered Baybayin?

I first saw the “Ka” symbol on a Katipunan flag in an encyclopedia while reading about the Philippines in a public library when I was in high school. At the time, I didn’t know that it was our writing system.

I thought the symbol was a capital “I” that stood for “Independence,” instead of “Katipunan” in the Baybayin syllabary. One day, I went to a Filipino festival and saw a poster with the symbol on various flags, and I tried to show it off to the store owner saying it was a capital “I.” He quickly corrected my saying that it’s “Ka” in our old alphabet.

After that, I started to look for more information.

What information did you find?

When I moved back to the Philippines after high school, I went to this temple called Megamall and found a chart in a book I bought at National Book Store. There, I learned the very basics but without the historical context. I learned that from a white guy in Canada named Paul Morrow, who became my email penpal.

Can you give us a quick crash course on Baybayin?

1) It came from India via Indonesia.

2) The traditional character set is made up of three vowels and 14 consonants.

3) Each consonant has an inherent “A” vowel attached to it.

4) To change the vowel sound, a kudlit is placed below or above the character. The top placement changes the vowel to “E” or ”I” and the bottom placement to a “O” or “U.” 5) The traditional way to write is to only spell out the syllables. For example, “lakas” would be written as “La”-”Ka.” 6) There is a modern method of adding the “S” by placing an “x” or “+” under the character to cancel the vowel.

To clarify, the traditional way to write the script is to only write the syllables. The reason for that was because each stroke had to be economic since it was laborious to scratch the bamboo. Since we knew each other in the tribe, we knew the role each person played and the words they spoke. In the modern context, I write non-Tagalog words using the modification but for non-colonial words like “maayo,” it should be written traditionally. I understand how it may seem weird but we must look at it from the lens of our ancestors, not our Westernized eyes and minds. Basically, if someone is trying to read your script and they don't know your context, you can gift it to them if you like. Now you have a story to tell.

As a preserver of Baybayin, what cultural significance does it hold for you?

Understanding my past gives me clarity and peace of my present path for the future. I look to bridge the gap between the past and the future. Reconnection is important, but it’s about applying the knowledge of the past. Through learning Baybayin, I became more fluent in Tagalog (I refuse to call it Filipino), as well as other languages. As I searched for more knowledge, I found like-minded people and now belong to multiple communities of cultural practitioners from dancers to tattooists. I also learned about our Austronesian cousins across the Pacific.

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What can you say to people who might say that practicing Baybayin art is the “trendy” thing to do, or that it is possibly touching upon cultural appropriation or exploitation?

The people that say that it’s “trendy” like it’s some TikTok dance don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s usually from someone who doesn’t practice it that does all the shit-talking. And if it is trendy, so what? It’s part of our culture. As for cultural appropriation or exploitation, they don’t know what they’re talking about either.

For some reason, people can’t tell the difference between the script functioning as art or as communication. I’ve consistently seen comments that they can’t read the artistic calligraphy piece, but we don’t do that with the Roman alphabet. We can clearly tell what the function is. Baybayin can be art, and it can also just be a boring writing system. Writing isn’t associated with a specific ethnolinguistic group. Baybayin is a generic term. Nobody owns it.

What’s your tip to those who are afraid of culturally appropriating?

1) Ask yourself: Is it going to make me look like an asshole?

2) Get permission.

3) Have a track record of working in the space you’re entering.

4) Educate.

5) Financially support the group you’re interested in working with.

What’s an upcoming project you’re most excited about?

Launching Balay School. It will be launched mid this year. People can sign up to get notified on balayschool.org. It's an online school aimed at Filipinos in the diaspora. The first class will be on Philippine scripts. While it's easy to learn the basics onlineーthe historical, social, and economic context are not. That is what my courses will focus on, and I have been testing my curriculum around universities, organizations, and businesses for the past five years.

Ultimately, what is your goal as a Baybayin artist?

My ultimate goal is to become irrelevant because that means that the practice has become normalized. I will then pivot to something else. ■

Kabuay.com Instagram.com/Kristian.Kabuay Facebook.com/KristianKabuay

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Rough cut Curated by Laguna Hip-hop’s Gnarrate, these tracks celebrate ideas—from frustration to formation Every idea starts with rough drafts. No matter how in love or on the fence we are about our brainchild, it always takes form through piles of crumpled paper and a dash of frustration. That’s just how the creative process works. And no one knows this better than David Villania a.k.a. Gnarrate, an OG of the Los Baños hip-hop scene.

This issue is a nod to the good and the bad of creating something new. For this playlist, we gave Gnarrate this concept to tinker with. In return, he gave us tracks from local giants like BLKD to icons like Kendrick Lamar, describing it as “a list of songs that prompted me to write songs, from old tracks to the ones I’m still writing."

Here’s to giving your ideas a shot after listening to this mix. Embrace the vibes, don’t get cold feet, pull a Nike and just do it, homie. ■

BLKD - "Gatilyo" Lupe Fiasco - "Around My Way" Kial - "Teatro" Bambu - "Comrades" Kendrick Lamar - "Swimming Pools" BLKD x Calix - "Makinarya" Prometheus Brown & Bambu - "Lookin' Up" Lupe Fiasco - "Bitch Bad" Illustrado - "Bartolina"

Words by Rogin Losa Art by Zaila Mae Urmeneta

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Your local guide to better living

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