I know it's been a month only and here I am again moving to another blog. Consider me a transient here and this is just a temporary home that I crashed in.
Follow me here.
If I had a patch of land, I'd convert it into a garden. There's something soothing to the eyes about plants and trees when the wind blows against them. I find early morning walks in our province fascinating because the streets there have mini-gardens with various types of flowers sticking out. I'm constantly dreaming of having a well-manicured front lawn where I can sip hot choco and see my future kids play with our pet dog.
This is why I can't forget a narrow strip of garden that I found nestled along a provincial highway one time during this year's summer:
I'm not a good Fine Arts student way back in college. I always had a hard time remembering names of dead foreign painters except for one -- Van Gogh. His works spoke to me like a gust of wind and they still speak to this day. Every day the sound becomes clearer. I honestly think that the message is absolutely clear that I need to visit the museum named after him. It's in Amsterdam and I think I'm a week away from kissing the wall designed by Kisho Kurokawa (he's got this terrific plan for 2025 Tokyo).
I also plan to visit the Anne Frank Museum.
It was brownout an hour ago in our house. Pitch dark. My room, you see, has no windows. I was asleep when it happened so I was awakened by the deafness around me. It just proves that I've been accustomed to the noise around me like a lullaby that always puts me to sleep.
This is the reason why I can't forget the 2005 horror flick The Descent. It's a story of a set of outdoor-adventure-seeking female friends who reunites after the traumatic vehicular accident that one of them recently experienced. They all set out to experience a cave system that turns out to be infested by humans that have evolved into strange-looking creatures.
The twist may be predictable in that almost always there is a tug-of-war among the victims for survival.
What gave me the chills is the torment that the two main characters experience all throughout the movie. It leads to the climax of having to deal with each other when, one by one, their friends fall prey to the strange creatures. The two bestfriends' issue slowly pushes back the gore of their friends' deaths to the background until only one remains standing... or slouching.
The ending is not likeable but it fixed me to realize that The Descent is not an ordinary horror movie. I'm more than satisfied that it slaps some sense of bizzare for a change.
Just don't entertain the thought of seeing its sequel. A bad sequel tends to cancel out the original.
SM Mega is my mall since I'm based in Pasig City and I work in Makati City. The mall's art strip is where I love to walk from Building B to A because not many people frequent that level. Who would, anyway, if most of the shops there feature art that I already saw as a child. I got to visit Rizal and Laguna for art appreciation trips as a child member of my school's art club. To be honest, displays that I've seen there for the past two decades lack fresh perspective.
Ricky Ambagan's Mga Langgam Sa Baguio finally ended my despair. His collection also managed to change my notion of the squalid state of metro Baguio which was my favorite vacation place as a child for more than four years. A lot has changed in the nation's summer capital and I tried to stay away as much I could, but Mga Langgan Sa Baguio brought me back to my cousins' home where I used to loiter the streets as a kid.
As a Tomasian, I normally have hesitant praises for U.P Diliman Fine Arts graduates since they always manage to put us in our place. In this case, Ambagan's collection deserves time and visit in Megamall's Galeria Anna. His impressionism influence caught me drooling for a few minutes per piece. Looking at the details of his pieces, I recall studying Van Gogh and his motivations -- how artists perform the brush dance and refuse to let go until the perspective is fulfilled on canvass.
The viewer can get lost in one's fascination for the pieces' distortions. Those that Ambagan demonstrates in Mga Langgam Sa Baguio effectively engages the viewer in an inevitable predicament. Are they appreciating their self-made illusion or is it the artist playing it off for them?
I've never seen power lines in such a beautiful light:
As random as Quiapo, but distinctively Ambagan's:
The Roadside Reviewer is traveling. Everyone does.
Collecting fragments along the way, we are left to choose what to keep and what to leave behind.
Everything's permissible but not everything is beneficial. I'm filtering the dirt.
Make The
Roadside Reviewer
Have Two Drinks of Beer
To Avoid Seeing This Pose
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