glabella.
THE FIRST ISSUE JANUARY 2K16
WARNING: MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE MATERIAL
glabella. THE FIRST ISSUE JANUARY2K16
CONTENTS 2
Genesis 3
Colorblind Painter 9
The Mysterious Makati Gallery 12
Meet me in Alter World 14
Nokia Phone Photography
Submit to Glabella: ginoongcervantes@gmail.com Follow the Maker on Twitter @sicarlcervantes Visit sloppydasein.wordpress.com
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GENESIS In the beginning was the Word, and that word was “Glabella”, which comes from the Latin glabellus (meaning hairless). This is the space between your eyebrows. It is said that the third eye is right behind that space. So is the pineal gland, which plays an important part in the vividness of your dreams, I chose this word for its kotodama (spirits that give power to words), which to me feels like a cold blob of blue light floating in a wet darkness, like a
That being said, this dream-world is fickle (as it should be) and most of its imaginings will be just that: imaginings. Fantasies from a dimension across our own. But which is the dream? Our subjectivity creates illusions, and we are affected by both fact and fantasy— our minds do not differentiate. The goal of this issue is to open that dream-world, and give us a glimpse of the possible. So with this, I christen the first issue of Glabella and hope—for your sake and for mine—that we do not lose track of what is real; and if we do, let us be willing to accept more than one reality. | Carl Lorenz Cervantes
luminescent creature from the deep sea. There is something still and powerful in the word “Glabella”, a kind of peace that I long for myself. Like that kotodama—that creature from the deep—this publication, my pet project, belongs to a secret world, hidden from the busy noise of waking life. I do not own this world, but I will dive into it and perhaps find myself already swimming in its cold embrace. Join me as we bear witness to the hidden sorrows of the human condition, explore the supreme joy of living, and shape the world in our image and likeness. The Glabella is our door to this secret world.
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COLORBLIND PAINTER by Rissa A. Coronel
He has a raging temper boiling just beneath the surface— demons at held at bay, calmed only by his creative endeavors.
The maestro and his fumbling pupil
is wasted. Every pigment, every drop
have been hard at work. This was her birthday gift: to learn how to paint from the professional. He uses the same tools she uses, except with the precision and ease of familiarity. The cheap brush glides in fully deliberate, yet fluid movements that bloom golden hues on paper. This is far from the fumbling it is used to,
of water is maximized.
the heavy-handedness that had caused it to lose one too many hairs.
state (i.e. against the skin: the robustness of a blush, faint of paleness, or choke of blue).
Everything on the blank paper is finished, at least in the head of that which the hand belongs to. Each perfectly orchestrated stroke spreads exactly the way he wants it. Nothing
This capability has also allowed us to appreciate what can be made when we manipulate color. A whole spectrum at our disposal, made from crushed minerals and resin—
* There has been speculation as to why humans developed comparatively improved color vision compared to that of other mammals. It is assumed to help sense others’ emotions and physical
“Colorblindness is classified as a mild disability: it causes confusion at stoplights, as well as sartorial mix-ups.” 3
awakening an even wider array of emotions at our depths.
The colorblind painter’s hands are rough, but he is in his element. The only signs of softness are hidden in movements that compensate for the times he had been burnt by bathroom acid, scalded by cooking oil. His vision betrays him; he has to ask his wife which pot of paint contains the yellow watercolor.
“Don't use the rag to dab the extra paint! That's an advanced technique. Just go with the flow, with the happy accidents. If there's too much water, use a dry brush like this,” the colorblind painter demonstrates as he quickly swipes away the extra water the pupil used on the young, yellow-dyed rosebud she was painting.
* Colorblindness is classified as a mild disability: it causes confusion at stoplights, as well as sartorial mixups.
“The colorblind painter surrounds himself in his senses at home; this is the only time he can do so.”
Most colorblind people get by just fine, if they aren’t doing anything color-coded. If they do have trouble, they have developed ways of coping. Some artists with colorblindness have become vocal about their condition, using it as a selling point. Others have opted to make monochromatic art, abandoning color altogether. There are other colorblind painters who have written about their handicap as being more of an advantage—without the distraction of color, the hushed, oftoverlooked properties of value and contrast shine through.
The bud is part of a bigger picture: a photo taken at Dangwa, Manila’s famed flower market. Unnaturallycolored roses and callalilies radiate from a tightly packed center. Painting dyed flowers wasn’t what I had in mind when he yielded to my birthday wish. I had waited months for this moment to happen because he is, at the very best, too tired, and apart from the hasty beso, it would be customary not to spend much time with him until the weekend.
The
colorblind
painter
surrounds
himself in his senses at home; this is the only time he can do so. His escape from corporate prison, so to speak. 4
“His vision betrays him.”
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“Many people afflicted with colorblindness find the term for their condition to be a misnomer.” He has a raging temper boiling just beneath the surface—demons at held at bay, calmed only by his creative endeavors: the familiar acridity of paint thinner, the feel of
less. It was an impressively rendered procession in his hometown, a carroza of Santo Niño surrounded by churchgoers. Everything was realistic, except for the fact that all
his fretboard. Grumbacher color wheels are a necessity at his workspace. His three guitars and accompanying musical gear are scattered around the living room, like
the people had bright green skin.
overstaying guests in a house with barely any room left.
for him. “Your favorite word was ‘why,’” he once reminisced, as he attempted to answer question after question about the way the world worked—forming, in effect, so much of my impression of the world in my formative years.
My childish antics and inappropriately inquisitive nature tended to put things into perspective
* The wayward pupil found it difficult not to poke fun at—she once had the nerve to give him a color quiz, with a jar of multicolored markers.
I’ve seen numerous sketches of me as a baby, as well as photographs of a new dad working on his MSDOS computer, with the other hand
She brought out an orange marker. “What’s this?” she asked, shamelessly. With eyebrows furrowed, he answered, “Green,” and she laughed in his face.
carrying a watching infant—as if it would’ve been emotionally unbearable to put me down for even a moment.
She brought out a royal blue marker. He saw violet.
* Many people afflicted with colorblindness find the term for their condition to be a misnomer.
She brought out green. He saw reddish-brown. She glanced at a painting at the far end of their living room—done by her father, the colorblind painter, no 6
A better way to put it is “the inability to sense or discriminate certain colors.”
as I entered high school; he will enter high school this school year, at the exact same year that I leave college.
It is caused by problems with certain receptors in the retina: one attuned to red, one to blue, and one to green. Having one or more defective receptors just means that they cannot tell apart certain colors in the spectrum. They all look the same to them.
We commiserate with each other in this way, but we both know that this will stop–there is a resignation of sorts to the endpoint that draws dangerously close. My brother will have the opportunity to study and navigate the strokes I have haphazardly made in his wake, taking great care not to make the same mistakes.
Since the birth of my only sibling in 2001, he started referring to us as a collective–mga bata. These four syllables rendered our seven-year age gap meaningless. He could be
* The colorblind painter is a severe
dropping only my brother off to a playdate at our cousin’s house, and he would still say “hatid ko na ‘yung mga bata,” even if I was right beside him. If one of us leaves a textbook in the living room–“ang kalat-kalat talaga ng mga bata,” with consequences for us both. We were responsible for each other, and this is what kept us close despite our widely differing ages.
teacher—there is a price to pay for wanting to learn from him. His pupils grew up in constant fear of his hands hitting their bums, their backs, the sides of their face. His notoriously short temper is what deters my brother from asking him for help. It’s uncanny that they spend so little time together, and yet they are still so alike. Their unbridled tempers are both forces to be reckoned with, even at his tender preteen years.
In spite of the large age gap that separates me and my brother, our lives are curiously punctuated at the exact same time by our respective transition periods. He was born in
“The colorblind painter is a severe teacher— there is a price to pay for wanting to learn from him.”
2001, the same time as I entered grade school; he donned his first white polo-and-chino getup, entered grade school in 2007, just 7
“The pupil is haphazard at best. All she seemed to put on paper were accidents—and not even the fabled ‘happy’ kind.”
I could never begrudge the colorblind painter for showing my brother only the strongest of hues, because I saw the brittle humanity that motivated his constant efforts to put up these fronts of fearlessness.
the bad habits have been ingrained from years of misuse and lack of practice. Colorblind Painter, if you ever want to know what your next work should be, go to the upstairs hallway and enter the second room on the left. There is a boy there who is convinced that he doesn’t need you; you might’ve missed his reds and greens over the years.
* The unopened rosebud on the pupil’s canvas has zero definition. "That cannot be saved—it looks like an asteroid collision," he says with a laugh. He asks for the “gray” rag
Guide his hand ever so gently. Place
beside her, and she hands him what is actually a green rag, wordlessly,
it in front of the blank sheet that he is reluctant to soil.
sparing him the teasing she was fond of in her childhood. An earlier draft was published on:
The pupil is haphazard at best. All she seemed to put on paper were accidents—and not even the fabled “happy” kind. The colorblind painter feigns a laugh, but she could still sense his frustration. Perhaps her technique could no longer be saved;
thethingonline.blogspot.com Rissa Coronel is constantly undergoing revision. She writes and rewrites around the place, and for fun. She's (sort of) active on proclockwatcher.tumblr.com.
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THE MYSTERIOUS MAKATI GALLERY by Carl Lorenz Cervantes
After a long walk down a creepy staircase, you’d reach the B2 Gallery, a black box with a single exhibit every other week. What makes the exhibit special is you get to actually live the exhibit, from tortures to orgies, depending on the night. No photos allowed.
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“You millenials and your short attention span. For you youngsters, you’ve always got to have something to do.” During the day, this building in Makati City is an office space. A wide, spacious, nondescript office space. But when the doors close at night, it becomes something more for only one night every other week. There is a backdoor entrance, and a man is seated as a guard—though you wouldn’t know at first that he’s a guard. He is dressed as a homeless person, a taong grasa pushing his very own kariton filled with oddities. If you know the right password, he’d let you in, and you’d be able to
me to drink with him to help numb the pain of my interview that day. We’ll hide him under the name Marvin.
enter.
you do find work, you’ll be okay for at least a few years. Depending on how long you’ll last. You millenials and your short attention span. For you youngsters, you’ve always got to have something to do, something to do.”
He was with an officemate, a quiet older guy who we’ll call Rob. After we had been introduced, the three of us were drinking towards the midnight. When Marvin was finally out of it, Rob started becoming more loquacious. “I know how hard it is to find work,” he said to me. “But trust me, when
After a long walk down a creepy staircase, you’d reach the B2 Gallery, a black box with a single exhibit every other week. What makes the exhibit special is you get to actually live the exhibit, from tortures to orgies, depending on the
“That’s not entirely bad,” I said. “It’s
night. No photos allowed.
good to keep oneself busy, as opposed to bumming around doing nothing.”
The only catch is this: once you’re in, you’d have to finish experiencing the exhibit.
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he said. He leaned towards me. “But if you’re open to experience new things, I know a place where you could make your wildest dreams come true. That
I knew about the B2 Gallery from a friend of a friend, back when I was going around Makati, looking for a job. During one particularly unsuccessful job interview, my friend, who at the time was already working and living in the city, invited
is, if you count dreams too.”
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nightmares
as
He began telling me about B2 Gallery in a hushed tone, as if somebody else was listening in on our intoxicated conversation. He described the horrors and pleasures he has experienced, and warned me not to do something I would soon regret. All of it was ominous but exciting, and I asked him where I could find the gallery. He told me where it was and even offered to bring me there.
wasn’t so good either. My eyes burned after, and by the end of the experience, I was drunk (even though I didn’t drink one drop). I was later told that this was a new movement in art, a way to both experience and assess artistic work. It forces you to be the art, while
“I’m a member,” he said. “Their passwords change every other week, but they send a letter to us about it.”
simultaneously being the audience in a unique blend of psychological games and philosophical reflection. The movement is called Neo Post Modern Meta Minimalist, and that black box in Makati was one of many across the world.
I asked him how to become a member, but he was already too
I was honestly not drunk enough to process it, but it was something I’m
intoxicated to answer. After that night, I bugged Rob until he finally consented to bring me to the gallery. There was much hesitation at first— he did not want me to enter the gallery and leave traumatized.
not sure I could handle for the second time. Besides, who knows what the next exhibit would be? I did not bother Rob after that night; I felt my curiosity satiated. I never returned to the B2 Gallery. Last I heard, they moved it.
“My first experience was a Drug Den exhibit,” he said reluctantly. “There were tons of illegal drugs, and I shit you not—it was all worth it. I figured: you’ve got to try all things at least once, right?”
“The movement is called Neo Post Modern Meta Minimalist, and that black box in Makati was one of many across the world.”
When I first entered the gallery, there was a swimming pool. The water, I soon found out, was not water—it was vodka, and people were splashing in it. There were even slides. The showers were also alcoholic. It wasn’t so bad, but it 11
MEET ME IN ALTER WORLD THE PEOPLE THAT POPULATE THE OTHER SIDE OF TWITTER.
It is night time, and Joe* is tired from work. He wants to unwind, to release the tension that’s been building up in his body. Joe wants to have fun with someone tonight. So he opens Twitter, switches his account, and enters the Alter world. There, he talks to other guys who want to unwind. Simple, easy, and mostly anonymous, the Alter world lets Joe play with his naughty side— something he hides during the day.
was on Omegle for fun—and not even in that way. People just looked for decent conversation, others to troll, or, sometimes, actual hookups. I was, of course, very curious about this. It was a hidden world, something to be explored. So, on lazy afternoons or lonely evenings, I go online and talk to other bored people. As one would expect, there are a lot of horny people online, but most of them were just as bored as I was. I wasn’t there to hook-up. I was there to explore, and what I discovered was a rabbit hole that went even deeper than I had expected.
When universities began creating Facebook Pages for their “secret files”, people would submit their stories a la Post Secret. The secrets range from the innocent (e.g. crushes) to the dark (e.g. thoughts of suicide), and most of the people who read and comment provide their opinions and maybe even share their own secrets without the anonymity.
During a particularly interesting conversation with another guy— those who do not disconnect after finding out that I am also a guy are very interesting people to talk to—he asked me if I had an “Alter Twitter”. I asked him what that was, but the internet was being crappy and we soon got disconnected.
People brag, share their thoughts, and express frustration on a platform that is open to everyone. Soon, people began posting their sex stories. Anonymous people told the public about their meet-ups with people from Omegle, and about the tags they used. There was that, and
I went down the rabbit hole, searching for this Alter Twitter, and after a few promising keywords, I quickly found it. It was a very, very bizarre world populated by horny teenagers and older guys from all
it was interesting. People began using the tags to get what they wanted, and after a while, everyone
*name changed to protect identity.
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“Simple, easy, and mostly anonymous.”
walks of life: from professionals to posers. I was actually surprised to find out that Twitter did not censor the (very unsafe) content in the Alter World.
Twitter. If you know what you want and want what you know, then Alter Twitter is the place for you. However, for other curious explorers, I must issue a word of warning: proceed with caution. It’s kind of like an online red light district, mostly for men who want other men—but there are a lot of boobies too, if you know where to look.
I’m not condemning the people who have an alter in the Alter world. I’m merely stating it as I saw it. People were trading pictures and videos, and others were mentioning each other, talking about hooking up.
So if you go on looking for Alter Twitter, you’re going on your own.
When I began feeling a bit woozy, I stepped back and out of Alter 13
NOKIA PHONE PHOTO GRAPHY PHOTOS BY CARL LORENZ CERVANTES
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All of these pictures were taken through a six-year old Nokia phone?
What would you say is your inspiration in taking these photographs?
Yes. Actually, the phone belonged to my lolo. I had gotten my previous phone wet as I waded through flood waters.
I don’t know, honestly. I had the phone through 2013, which was when I was in second-year college. Things were all new and exciting, so I took pictures of
Flood waters... was this during Ondoy?
all of it.
No, it was after. My dad and I were stranded outside our village for two nights and I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I wrapped my cellphone in a plastic bag and we waded through the flood. Unfortunately, the waters got into the plastic bag. So, I had to replace it, and my lolo was selling his phone for a very, very cheap price.
So that explains the dissected frog. Yeah, we were taking biology. But you might also be wondering about the cockroach. We had to dissect that too. Ew! Not really, it was actually pretty cool.
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“They were snippets or life, or how Katipunan Avenue looked like to a 17-year-old.”
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You studied in Ateneo, right?
Why not edit them? Fix their quality?
Yes.
I don’t edit my pictures because there’s nothing much to edit anymore. Besides, I like the rawness of the photographs. They’re gritty and real.
So these pictures were just taken around Katipunan? Most of them were. They were snippets or life, or how Katipunan Avenue looked like to a 17-year-old. I would take pictures here and there because I had romanticized the world. Things were generally more beautiful than they really were, and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.
What other places have you taken pictures of? I would take the phone as I travelled, so I took pictures of beaches and mountains and clouds. Maybe we can display them some other time. Maybe.
Did you try submitting these pictures to competitions?
By the way, who’s interviewing me? You’re interviewing yourself.
(laughs) Yeah. But they have never been accepted anywhere. Admittedly, the photos are pretty grainy.
Ah yeah. I forgot that it’s an independent magazine. Wait a minute, is that how I got to be published?
That makes for a vintage appeal.
Well, it is your magazine.
True, but people like quality. Even black and white photographs are now taken from nice cameras.
Right.
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glabella. Thank you for being part of this first issue. The Maker of this independent publication trusts that you are rational enough to decide whether or not the contents herein are factual or not. That being said, even fictional accounts have some truth to them. This publication is an experiment, my own kind of Neo Post-Modern Meta Minimalism, and it welcomes fresh voices. People who would like to collaborate with me in this experiment are welcome to do so; you may send me your articles or photography for consideration so that I might include them in future monthly issues of Glabella. This is an independent publication, though, so as of writing this, even I am not getting paid for anything. But anyway, this is fun. We get to create a new reality and explore different worlds. We’ll meet again next month. I plan to release an issue every first Saturday of the month. I hope you could join me as Glabella finds its voice. And on one of these days, I hope it begins to speak for itself. -Carl
For more Glabella, follow: issuu.com/sloppydasein
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