Fast—Slow

I've known I was an artist for as long as I can remember—I just spent most of my life trying not to be one.

I moved from the Philippines to Canada when I was 2 years old. Growing up, I was the artsy kid—my teachers would ask to keep my artwork to show future students, and my classmates would ask to keep it for themselves. But ultimately, my mom always won the tug-of-war for who got to keep my art. I excelled in the arts and won the visual arts award at my elementary school graduation. My path as an artist was being paved, but I sent the concrete truck away and started walking on the grass and dirt.

I never gave much thought to what I wanted to be when I grew up. But I showed clear signs of what I ought to be, what I might be destined for. I should've gone to an arts high school. I didn't. At 15 or 16, I found photography and design, and fell in love with them. I should've gone to an arts college. I didn't. Instead, I studied fields that I thought would make money, but the passion wasn't there, and I never finished. I've stumbled my way around the job market, doing every job under the sun. I've had some creative gigs along the way, but never fully pursued them. I think this strange habit of getting in my own way is called imposter syndrome.

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In 2020, I left Canada for a six-month trip to the Philippines. The only other time I'd been there was in Grade 4. The first three months of the trip were amazing, and then Covid lockdown happened. I was stranded. 

After eight months, I could finally explore again. A year passed before I booked my first flight home, but cancellations and mandatory hotel quarantines kept me there another year and a half. In total, I spent about two and a half years in the Philippines. My life was flipped turned upside down. I experienced a life completely different from the one I was used to in the West, perhaps something closer to the life I would've had if I'd never moved to Canada.

I experienced typhoons, flooding, weeks without electricity, and days without running water. I bathed and collected water from a well. I saw the contrast between the pristine, highly developed pocket of BGC and the impoverished streets of Manila. I drank and played cards at little tables beside giant rats, cockroaches, and disease-carrying mosquitoes. I learned to negotiate prices, avoid taxi scams, and speak better Tagalog.

I touched the sand at world-class beaches like Boracay and El Nido, swam with locals at spots far from the usual tourist stops, and trekked to the remote mountain village of Buscalan where I photographed the legendary 100-year-old tattoo artist Apo Whang Od. I got COVID and was sent by truck to an emergency makeshift hospital made from shipping containers that felt straight out of a zombie movie.

I experienced the interconnected and communal spirit of kapwa and bayanihan. I grew closer to my extended family, meeting many of them for the first time. I fell in love. And somewhere along the way, I promised myself that when I returned to Canada, I'd finally pursue the path I'd spent so long avoiding.

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Fast—Slow explores the contrasts between East and West, and how my experiences navigating those worlds led me back to art. It's for those navigating the space between two worlds, wherever and whatever those worlds may be.

And now the concrete truck has returned. It's backed into the driveway. The high-pitched, staccato warning has gone quiet, and the concrete is pouring...