Art Exhibit and Concert

Watch out for the art exhibit, Scandalosa,on Saturday, April 19, 2008 at Cafe SaGuijo on Guijo St., San Antonio Village, Makati.

Three female twenty-something artists decided to get together and lend a voice to their very own Millenial Generation (those born between 1980 and 2000). This privileged, gifted, and creative, yet at times confused and tragic generation has grown up amidst the money and luxury afforded by their dotcom billionaire environment, the chaos of the internet, globalization, the proliferation of mind-altering substances, the general acceptability of boozing, drugging and alternative styles of partying, and the brazen expression and brave exploration of their sexuality.

Although many millenial babies have made it very big in this world because of the options that weren't available to baby boomers and yuppies, there are sad stories to be told. The abundance of choices that confront them, the permissiveness of their society, the absence of old-school restraints have sent many spiralling into self-destruction.

These are the collateral damages of such a lifestyle; many, too painful to chronicle. All we have to do is look at Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Kirsten Dunst, Amy Winehouse, and Paris Hilton, plus in our very own backyard, the now infamous Gucci Gang.

These three artists: Tara Almario, showcasing Lomography (or Low Photography, an avant garde concept of photography using low lights and slow motion techniques); Francesca Ayala, showcasing abstract and realist paintings; and Kate Santos showcasing art installations of found objects; aim to show that amidst the plenty and the privilege their generation enjoys there must exist measures of accountability and responsibility; the defining theme of their work being "You are only as good as what you did last night."

An extremely relevant concept, I think. There will be food and live band music. Entrance is free. The Millenial Generation is the generation of our children; let us please be there!

Link

SCANDALOSA is an art exhibit featuring the works of Tara Almario, Francesca Ayala and Kate Santos.

Alternative time killers
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala 
Friday, March 14, 2008

Two weeks after I flew home from my grad school tour of America, I realized I had turned into a zombie. No, not the vicious, disfigured flesh-eating kind one would find antagonizing entire towns in Hollywood B-movies or tormenting your friends on Facebook. I felt like my mind had turned off and my body was trying to function without it. I was experiencing existential anguish over the fact that I would soon be transitioning back to school and had absolutely no idea where I would end up in the next few months. My anxiety was only further amplified by a severe lack of sleep brought on by jetlag. I tried to calm myself by talking to friends, only to learn that those capable of hearing out my spastic, insomnia-induced panic attacks at the buttcrack of dawn were those who lived in different time zones. Needless to say, the late-night IM sessions with my friends in New York and early-morning phone conversations with my better half in Los Angeles did nothing to help my situation. I locked myself in my room and only left my bed to shower, eat and occasionally pay the Jollibee delivery guy for another bucket of Chicken Joy. Each day was spent in this limbo of futile attempts to pass the time and wait for my future to be revealed, in the form of letters from the admissions committees of the schools I applied to. I knew this would not happen for a few more months and my impatience made waiting all the more excruciating. I was the living dead, meandering through the waking world with no more goals to check off my to-do list.

Thankfully, the apathy with which I was living my life did not last long. One day I finally woke up, decided to shake off my reclusive urges and knee my lack of motivation in the nuts. My skin had taken on an unholy color from being cooped up in a room that was even darker than a Skid Row song. My pajamas became my uniform and I would shower only to change into another oversized band shirt and pair of boxers. The highs and lows of my days had become dependent on what programs were showing on television. I was in the Bell Jar and I did not like it. I’d had enough of my self-indulgent lethargy and thus decided to grab life by the balls in ways that would make the Pepsi Max marketing team proud. The fact that I had a lot of time to pass didn’t mean I couldn’t take a proactive approach to it. I had run out of items to cross off my checklist of things to do, so I decided to make a new one. I knew I wasn’t going to reach any life-changing personal epiphanies with this new set of goals, but anything was better than succumbing to a zombie-slacker existence that made waiting for my life to happen about as exciting as watching paint dry. For everyone’s perusal, I’ve included this list of productive ways to pass time below. These days, I still go to bed at dawn, but at least now, I have reasons to get out of it.

1. Fall in love again. No, I don’t mean with a person. When coming home puts you in a bit of a slump, it’s probably a good idea to explore the reasons you call it home in the first place. I decided to rediscover Manila and began to explore the strange cultural cross-sections that give meaning to this wonderful (yet terribly misunderstood) city. I signed up for Carlos Celdran’s walking tour of historic Intramuros, which I had actually done before. Much has to be said about Carlos’ ability to condense centuries of significant events into a highly entertaining history lesson “for those with absolutely no attention span.” His undeniable talent as a performer is put to excellent use as he walks you through various monuments around Intramuros, and with his arsenal of costumes, visual aids and music, gives you the lowdown on Philippine history from a paradigm you won’t find in any textbook. “I can’t change the way Manila looks,” Carlos says, “but I can change the way you look at Manila.”

While walking through Intramuros with Carlos did wonders to rekindle my love affair with my hometown, it is a known fact that the quickest way to my heart is through my stomach. So imagine my delight at discovering Ivan Mandy’s eating tour of Binondo. I signed up for it almost immediately with the enthusiasm of a heartbroken woman rocking a platinum credit card during sale season. The Big Binondo Food Wok is a four-hour adventure that walks you through 400 years of history in Chinatown. Ivan fills your mind and your belly with tidbits of Chinese culture and cuisine and explains its relevance to contemporary Filipino culture. The tour stops at several traditional Chinese shops and restaurants, but it’s the more obscure food stops that make it a trip worth taking. “On the whole,” Ivan says, “it’s really more of a cultural experience which involves seeing the sights, hearing the sounds, understanding the stories and appreciating the taste — essentially making everyone celebrate the fun in being Filipino.”

* * *

To book a tour with Carlos Celdran, call or text 0920-9092021 or visit www.celdrantours.blogspot.com. To book one with Ivan Mandy, call or text 0917-329-1622 or visit www.oldmanilawalks.com.

2.  Take up a new hobby… and try not to fall down. In a desperate attempt to get out of the house, I called up my high school friends one Saturday afternoon to come pick me up and save me from my Howard Hughes existence. Imagine my surprise when I answered the door — in full makeup and disco Chucks — to see them standing there with longboards. “We’re going to teach you how to skate today,” they said. Needless to say, I was pretty much forced to reconcile with my gravitational issues on the spot, while my friends stood and watched. Surprisingly, I didn’t eat concrete on my first attempt and had more fun going up and down my street than I ever had before. Never mind that my eyeliner had dripped down to my collarbones at the end of it. I hadn’t played outside with my friends since we were in the seventh grade. Now I’m wondering why we ever stopped.

* * *

I had so much fun learning to skate I’m saving up to buy my own longboard from Ladera Manila’s site, www.whiskeyhill.multiply.com. Hopefully, with enough practice I’ll be brave enough to do all those fancy tricks. But for now, I’ll settle for not falling down.

3. Conquer your fear with friends. I hate to say it, but quality time with your crew can get kind of old if you’re hitting up the same happy hour joint for after-work cocktails every single weeknight. Of course, when you’re not really dressed in your boogie shoes and aren’t in the mood to shake your groove thing at a place with a dress code and a doorman, it’s always good to find a cheaper, chilled-out venue for your shenanigans. During our quest for new ways to go nighttiming, my friends and I discovered Rockeoke, which happens every first and third Monday of the month at Mag:net Bonifacio High Street. Hosted by Quark Henares, JC Medina and Gabe Mercado, this wicked alternative to karaoke encourages participants to “rock out with their c**ks out” while a house band (The Johnnys) backs them up. Those ready to rock pick a song from five books that circulate throughout the night. When the time comes, you can call on friends to back you up or choose to face the music on your own. What bumps Rockeoke all the way up to the top of my fun list is the bonding experience it promises everyone who attends. It doesn’t matter if you’ve sung professionally or if your vocal abilities haven’t made it past your shower door. Your timing can be off and your voice may crack when you try to reach the high notes, but your peers always applaud you for your efforts and by the end of the night, you’ll find yourself high-fiving strangers and swapping numbers with new friends. I’ve already been several times, and while I’m more certain than ever that I will never merit a career in the music industry, my Monday nights have definitely become more interesting.

* * *

Check out www.magnethighstreet.multiply.com for more updates on Rockeoke.

* * *

What do you do to pass the time? E-mail me at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com. I’m always up for an adventure.

i can't believe i they're my favorite band of all time!

who's coming with me?

WHO'S COMING WITH ME???

Link

So they held this piece for two weeks and published it the day after Valentine's Day... I hope you all forgive that.

In the waiting line
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, February 15, 2008
For a second there I thought you disappeared… The lull of Jason Schwartzman’s voice nudges you back into the waking world. Despite a desperate urge to drift back to the mind-numbing oblivion of the Tylenol PMs you took the night before, a confrontation with your emotions is in order.

The knot around your heart swan-dives into the pit of your stomach as the plane finally begins its descent towards Manila, the city you call home. Seats back up, no tray tables down. Time to switch off all electronic devices. You try to be a punk and hide your headphones under your hoodie, because the idea of your plane crashing to the beat of your favorite Coconut Records song is much more appealing than facing the facts. Your three-month hiatus from life in the real world is rapidly drawing to a close.

The city lights that faded in the wake of your departure now flare to greet you, blazing like neon “welcome home” signs built from a vulgar amount of billboards. The blacks and grays of Manila at night quickly materialize into skyscrapers, highways, hotels and houses. You stare out the window and trace random shapes into the fog your breath leaves on the double-paned Plexiglass. The wheels finally touch down on the runway, but you don’t even notice that your plane’s landed until you hear the syncopated clicking of seatbelt buckles as passengers scramble for their pasalubong in the overhead compartments and stealthily switch on their cell phones. Welcome home, you think, as if trying to convince yourself that you’re exactly where you want to be. You try and shake off the haze from the barbiturates, a futile attempt to forget that just 24 hours ago, you were saying goodbye to a life you hadn’t thought you wanted.

Your mind flashes back to two days ago. It’s eight in the evening and you’re killing time at LAX’s international terminal, having a farewell drink at La Cantina with your older cousin (she might as well be your Siamese twin, but the kind you’d never want to be surgically separated from) and the boy you’re desperately trying not to fall for (although you already know the cynicism from past experiences has long since lost that battle). How ironic that you should spend your last hour in Los Angeles with people who represent your past and a possible future. Adding even more to the irony of the situation is the fact that these two people, from seemingly disparate aspects of your life, are united because they are the ones who make you feel like you belong in a place where you thought you would never fit in. They are the ones who will miss you the most. This you know because they hug you like the goodbye will be your last and — despite the ridiculously time-consuming line at the airport security checkpoint — wait till you’ve made it to the x-ray conveyor belt before they make their way back to the parking lot. After 20 years of dealing with your issues you’ve learned not to shed tears during situations such as this. You slip off your boots and amble through the metal detectors with the ease of someone used to living in and out of her suitcase. A lifetime of this so-called “Samsonite existence” has supposedly made you a master at the art of leaving things behind. This time, however, things are different.

You flew to America to apply to grad school. The numerous bullet points on your résumé and the months you spent studying to place you in the 96th percentile on your GRE writing test had you confident that this goal would easily be ticked off your long-term to-do list. Taking the necessary steps to becoming a remarkable journalist was all you knew. After a few good interviews with admissions officers from notable institutions, you grew confident, and even a little cocky, that this dream could finally materialize. Despite all that, the overwhelming sense of achievement in your head has now taken a backseat to the pull of your heartstrings.

You arrive at your gate with ample time to pass and pull out your planner to go over your list of grad school requirements and application deadlines. You take your pen out but can’t bring yourself to even take the cap off. Instead of crossing items off your agenda, you find yourself staring blankly at those pages while you pull out your iPod and rock out to songs that trigger memories of being lost in Glendale with your cousin, armed with nothing but Del Taco drive-thru meals and Steve Aoki remixes playing on repeat. A sense of direction and deductive reasoning are not traits that run in your family and for this reason, many nigh-timing adventures from Huntington Beach to Hollywood — some involving desperate searches for a restroom at three in the morning and others involving dressing as lubes for the West Hollywood gay parade — brought you even closer. You realize that getting lost has never before made you feel that you’re exactly where you want to be and you laugh out loud at the paradox. People stare only for a second because the fact that you look like a lunatic is trumped by your boarding announcement.

You make a run for it so you’re among the first passengers to board the plane. However, your plans of settling into your seat with a James Michener novel and those itchy airline blankets are foiled by a sentiment-inducing surprise. The cellphone you thought you switched off starts to ring. It’s him. The boy you met by chance, at a time when you condemned romance to clichéd plots for trash novels, the kind featuring Fabio on every single cover. However, the fact that this guy doesn’t even realize how gorgeous he is makes you want to do things one would only read about in Fabio novels. He swept you off your Italian suede stilettos in a three-month span, half the period of time you spent saving up to buy them. Your reputation as a heartless man-eater is ruined forever. Surprisingly, you’re quite all right with that.

There were several overt gestures of affection on his part that made you realize he was the first man, in a very long time, you genuinely respected. He drove for an hour from Westwood to Cerritos, abandoning houseguests to see you off before you flew to San Francisco. No man had ever been sexier than when he brought you home a Wendy’s jalapeno burger because you mentioned in passing that you wanted to try one. He called you every day (sometimes several times a day) when you spent a month in New York to look at schools. These actions obliterated your fear of turning into a bitter spinster with nothing but wrinkled tattoos and an iron lung to keep you company in your old age. Between discovering that you actually like to cuddle and that he is the only person in the world who loves the sound of your laugh, you guys discussed two things that you had previously referred to as the “f-words”: feelings and future. These words come up once more when he says his last goodbye to you over the phone. You suddenly realize that you are no longer afraid to hear them. It’s because they’re finally coming from someone who isn’t afraid to say he has feelings for you; the kind of man you’d actually consider a future with. You tell him you miss him already and hang up, oblivious to the fact that the kid lining up behind you is rolling his eyes at your mushy-gushy talk.

Your thoughts fast-forward back to the real world. Most of the passengers have already disembarked and the flight attendants are giving you those condescending smiles that translate to Get off the plane now. Those forced grins are enough to make you grab your things quickly and bolt from the aircraft, only to get caught in the immigration line. You fumble through your purse for your passport and leaf through the pages, counting the stamps from all over the world to pass time while you wait. I was globetrotting before I could walk. Leaving a place has never bothered me this much before. What’s so different about this trip? You shake your head and hand the immigration officer your documents. He lowers his bifocals slightly to compare your haggard face to the one in your passport picture and asks if you’re here to go home. Suddenly you understand why flying home is so emotionally excruciating this time around. You left Manila to chase your dream of becoming a writer who could make a difference. In the end, the biggest change happened within you. Sure, you were used to a life of transitioning from one country to the next. But this new change you feel has nothing to do with geography. While flying to America in search of grad schools originally began out of ambition, you didn’t bank on it fulfilling the needs of your heart. It sinks in that your trip did so much more than open doors professionally. It unlocked the cage that years of cynicism had built around your ability to feel without fear. Despite your uncertainties regarding your graduate education, you take comfort in the fact that you know where your heart belongs. And no matter where you do go, you know there are no boundaries for a heart that has finally opened.

The immigration officer stamps your passport and stares at you uncomfortably as you feel your cheeks flush and your throat tighten. You rush to take your documents, hurry off, and for the first time in 10 months, you let yourself cry. People start to stare as they flock in clusters towards the baggage claim area. Puffy-eyed, red-faced and in desperate need of a shower, you realize that, once again, you look like a crazy person crying in middle of the airport. But at least, this time, they’re tears of joy.

The WhipperSnapper is back, ladies and gentlemen!

Young Star

Back to (un)cool
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, January 25, 2008
It’s nine o’clock on a Thursday night. Under normal circumstances, I would be in my room, busting out an arsenal of early ‘90s dance moves to The Sounds and eagerly raiding the darkest recesses of my closet for a colorful mishmash of an ensemble to serve as a clever icebreaker at my favorite weeknight haunt. Texts from fellow ‘80s babies and dance floor denizens would flood my cell phone, punctuating the lyrics to “Tony the Beat” with abrupt message alerts that sound like fairy dust... If you pressed your ear to my door, you’d be convinced that Tinkerbell and I were going to town and kicking off the weekend early (because Thursday is, like, totally the new Friday again, ever since Mondays became marketing opportunities for all these night clubs).

Tonight, however, no such pre-game is going on. Instead of brandishing a Day-Glo statement tee, I’m in the same muumuu I’ve been wearing around the house all day. My phone is on silent and buried in my vanity drawer because I’m way too embarrassed to tell my friends I’m staying home and, no, I’m not sick. I’ve smoked about a pack and a half of cigarettes, which is odd because now I smell like I’ve been clubbing even if there’s no way I’m leaving the house tonight. My best friend finally ambushes me by calling my landline (people still do that?!) and asks me where the hell I’ve been and what time I’m headed out tonight. I take a deep breath and try to think of a good lie, but she knows I’m stalling so I decide to suck it up and tell her the ridiculous truth. “I’m not going out tonight,” I say, already picturing the expression of disbelief on her face, “I’m staying home to study.”

My forays into lifestyle journalism brought about a sense of purpose I found difficult to ignore. As a result, I decided to begin the application process to graduate schools in the United States. It seemed only logical to hone my talent at an institution that would provide me with training much more specialized than the broad-based liberal arts education I received as an undergraduate student without a specific goal. My parents and friends were supportive of my decision to pursue a master’s degree and I was confident that I would breeze through the application process as if I were picking out a pair of shoes during sale season. Paper applications were a thing of the past, so I no longer had to worry about meeting deadlines by relying on the questionable services offered by the Philippine Post Office (I’m convinced they stole the Magic Sing I shipped home from Switzerland… I’ve since replaced it with the Pacquiao Edition but that version doesn’t have any Abba songs on it). Those I approached to write recommendation forms for me agreed to do so with alacrity. I flipped through the smorgasbord of clips I’d stashed away over the years and found a few distinctive pieces to include in my application. I ticked items off my list of grad school requirements at the same ease with which I scratched Fall 2007’s must-have accessories off my wish list. However, my overzealousness to take the proverbial next step in terms of furthering my education was immediately dampened upon the realization that getting into any graduate school in America required me to suffer through the motions of taking the GREs, or Graduate Record Examinations.

The GREs are computer-adaptive tests administered to graduate school applicants as a means of classifying their skills in extemporaneous essay writing and verbal and quantitative (fancy way of saying “math”) reasoning into figures that help admissions officers determine whether or not the applicant is “right” for the school. I personally believe that standardizing a person’s abilities defeats the entire purpose of fastidiously compiling testimonials to their uniqueness. I also hate taking tests. But this was an inevitable demon I had to slay, and with much bellyaching, I took the necessary steps to prepare for it.

Nerd is the New Black

I hadn’t taken a test in years and all of a sudden I found myself studying with the diligence I lacked throughout high school and my freshman year of college. I hung up my dancing shoes, determined to forego the frivolous in favor of review classes, vocabulary lists and math problems. Over the weeks, I discovered new and extremely frightening aspects about myself, along with mathematical formulas I would never use in my life and word definitions that I would, in no way, be able to slip into casual conversation. The overwhelming amount of information I tried to process led to insomnia and spastic fits of worry. I would chat online with my cousin in California and my best friend in New York simply because no one else in my time zone was awake to chill me out. I started to break out in nervous hives that frightened even my dog. I began to doubt the likelihood that I would do well on the test and even considered applying to schools in states I couldn’t even point out on a map.

I couldn’t ever remember being that nervous in my entire life. I cruised through high school on lackadaisical efforts to meet unchallenging requirements and enough cheat sheets to write a how-to book for future delinquents. I took a more serious approach to my undergraduate education simply because I was given the choice to dabble in fields that actually piqued my interest. Of course, this attitude did not come without the occasional indifference of a slacker-generation baby who would have preferred to bat her eyes at pretty boys and jet-set across Europe than figure out her long-term goal in life. Heck, I used to think I was a pretty cool kid, not this sleep-deprived spazz tormented by nervous hives and visions of failure.

As I was contemplating this new and unsettling dimension of my self, it occurred to me that perhaps “nerdiness” had been a latent quality that had only decided to manifest now because, for once in my life, I finally had a sense of purpose. Getting into graduate school would only be the first of many steps I had to take before I could earn my place amongst my personal heroes, print mavericks such as Tom Robbins, Anna Wintour, Terry Jones and Marvin Scott Jarrett. Perhaps my late-night stress-induced outbursts were justified by the fact that for the first time, I felt something very real was at stake. And despite the magnitude of what I was trying to achieve, it was comforting to know that I was approaching it one dorky little day at a time. These days, I’m finally getting some sleep at night, regardless of the occasional nervous hives. So what if I can’t dance for now? Hopefully the next time I shake my groove thing, it’ll be the victory dance I do after I rock the GREs.

* * *

If you need help studying for the SATs, GREs, GMATs or TOEFL, I would recommend that you contact Solomon’s Center for Wisdom at 899-7388 (look for Baby) for a tutor. Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Thank you Kaie for helping me waste a little time and put some serious thought into my iTunes selection.

RULES:
Put your music player on shuffle.
For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
You must write that song name down no matter how silly it sounds!


1. If someone says "Is this okay?" you say?

House of Jealous Lovers -- The Rapture ("One hand unties the other..." Napaka artsy fartsy naman...)

2. What would best describe your personality?

Good Woman -- Cat Power (A girl after my own heart. She's in AA and is Karl Lagerfeld's muse. Not to mention a tremendously talented musician.)

3. What do you like in a guy/girl?

This is Not A Love Song -- Nouvelle Vague (Forget all the mushy gushy stuff; just be real with me.)

4. How do you feel today?

Rag and Bone -- The White Stripes ("Bring out your junk and we'll give it a home...")

5. What is your life's purpose?

New Slang -- The Shins ("I might be looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find...")

6. What is your motto?

Walk the Walk -- Poe ("I want to walk to the beat of my own drum..." Fuck yeah.)

7. What do your friends think of you?

Fire Department -- Be Your Own Pet (It makes sense if you connect it to my dark days.)

8. What do you think of your parents?

Discotech -- Young Love/ Steve Aoki Remix (Ummm... Doubtful. But wouldn't it be nice? Let's get down mom and dad, we've been waiting a long time!)

9. What do you think about very often?

You Can Have it All -- You La Tengo (Damn straight.)

10. What do you think of your best friend?

The Gang's All Here -- The Dropkick Murphys (Well, she is a bit of a punk and one hell of a party.)

11. What do you think of the person you like?

Ruby SoHo -- Rancid ("Embraces with a warm gesture, it's time to say goodbye... destination I don't know...")

12. What is your life story?

Daisy Duke -- Rooney ("I'm unbreakable, there's no need for fragile stickers...")

13. What do you want to be when you grow up?

Valerie -- Mark Ronson featuring Amy Winehouse ("Stop making a fool out of me...", NEVER! I'll always be ridiculous!)

14. What do you think when you see the person you like?

Fire Fire -- M.I.A. (There is a fire. In my BAGINA.)

15. What do your parents think of you?

Give it to Me - Timbaland featuring Nelly Furtado and Justin TImberlake (It should be "Give us our money back")

16. What will you dance to at your wedding?

Pop My Cherry -- Marilyn Manson and Fiona Apple (Dear God. My parents will have a heart attack right then and there. And it's much too late for that anyway.)

17. What will they play at your funeral?

My Bad Reputation -- The Donnas (Good call. I want everyone to play "Tiny Dancer" and then throw a wicked party after they have a good cry.)

18. What is your favorite hobby/interest?

Parklife -- Blur (Best hanging out/rocking out alone in your room/being gago with friends/drinking game song ever.)

19. What is your biggest fear?

Nature of the Experiment -- Tokyo Police Club (My impeccable disorder? The patterns of my temperament?)

20. What is your biggest secret?

Gold -- Spandau Ballet (I guess it means that my biggest secret is that I'm indestructible.)

21. What song will be the title when you repost this?

Wannabe -- The Spice Girls (Lahvet.)

Young Star

All-access style
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, August 31, 2007
I believe that the recipe for disaster in the Philippines can be condensed into a sentence: Just add water. Once again, ‘tis the season of suspended classes, power fluctuations and natural disasters. The immediate weather change from “seeded” to stormy put an end to our so-called drought and sunshine is on its annual hiatus, turning the city I used to call my playground into a dreary, monochromatic mess. With doom and gloom violently spewing out of the sky on a daily basis, it was practically impossible to do most of the things I’d normally do to cheer myself up. Shopping, for instance, had metamorphosed from an all-time favorite pick-me-up into an epic voyage challenging the fates. Seriously, retail therapy isn’t nearly as therapeutic when you have to schlep on a pair of heavy-duty Wellingtons, brave mind-numbing traffic jams and trudge through dirty, knee-deep rainwater to get from one store to the next. I was determined not to let the miserable weather conditions put more of a damper on my spirits, so I decided that the quickest fix to this predicament would be to find a single, slinkster-cool store that offered a unique selection of formal and casual wear, a one-stop shop that would cater to the seasonal personality shifts of a fashion maverick desperate to fill her closet. Such a place would be straight out of fashionista folklore, but I was hell-bent on finding it.

After much searching (well, it was more like wading) through the streets of Manila for a style Mecca for scenesters and hipsters alike, I finally found BaCKStaGE, a multi-brand boutique featuring clothes from an all-star lineup of established and up-and-coming Filipino designers, as well as a few foreign lines from Los Angeles, Japan and Hong Kong. Located in Serendra, Bonifacio Global City, BaCKStaGE promotes Philippine fashion by making one-of-a-kind pieces available to the ready-to-wear market. Folks who can’t be bothered to schedule a consultation and go back and forth to a designer’s atelier (which, let’s admit, is a total pain especially if you’re like me and have no navigational skills to speak of unless there is a sign above the location in big, red letters that reads “SALE”) for fittings will appreciate the fact that the store offers made-to-measure items as well. Upon entering the store, I was impressed to find the star ensembles of Philippine Fashion Week’s headliners hanging next to each other on the racks. All-stars such as Ronaldo Arnaldo, Tippi Ocampo, Czarina Villa, John Herrera, Gretchen Pichay and Pier Lim are on the list of local talent featured in BaCKStaGE’s lineup of designers. The store also carries ready-to-wear shirts and hoodies from Team Manila, bags by Verushkha Go, shoes by Flat and NJ Sneaks, accessories by Maki Navarette, and features artwork by AJ Omandac.

What makes BaCKStaGE so remarkable is the fact that the store is, in a way, consumerizing local couture. This helps established designers reach a broader target market and gives start-up designers a formidable entry point into the fashion industry.

“The direction of the store, with regard to design aesthetics, is to create an eclectic mix of unique and original styles, presenting to consumers what Filipino designers can offer,” says storeowner Stanley Balonan. The BaCKStaGE shelves and racks encapsulate a colorful spectrum of Philippine fashion at its finest, whether it’s street-savvy ready-to-wear or cocktail chic couture. It’s refreshing to find a boutique that has the moxie to back its substance up with style. As an avid supporter of all things homegrown, I think that BaCKStaGE is on the right track with its mission to endorse local fashion and I hope that many others will soon follow suit. With all the available talent there is, the fashion industry could certainly stand a boost from the consumer market. As for me, I still can’t stand the erratic weather these days. But at least I’ve found a store that’s made shopping in the rainy season a journey totally worth taking.

* * *

Check out BaCKStaGE at 2C-18, 2nd Floor Serendra, Bonifacio Global City, Taguig or visit www.backstagestore.multiply.com. Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Not the original title I wanted but we do our best... Kate Santos' paintings rock my sock!

Young Star

An artist of the frozen world
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, August 10, 2007
In the art world, which is more often than not criticized for creating borders across the elitist’s cultural caste system, it’s refreshing to find exceptional work that doesn’t take itself too seriously. This is what makes Katherine Santos’ art unique. Her paintings are playful explorations that trace the creative process of an artist who has perfected “coloring outside the lines,” almost to an aesthetic science. The immediate success of Le Premiere Exposition, the artist’s first solo exhibit at the Prose Gallery (on Arnaiz Avenue in Makati), marked her formidable entrance into Manila’s art world and has given her ample room to leave as many brush strokes and paint splats on it as she pleases. Along with her persistence in questioning traditional methods and innovating in terms of form and technique, Kate’s perpetually jovial personality and self-effacing nature are what place her notches above her contemporaries. There’s no doubt in our minds that she’s going to show all the fuddy-duddies of the art world a thing or two about creative genius that doesn’t stick its nose in the air and has a wicked good time redefining art for the future.

Although Kate officially started painting professionally in 2003, she admits it’s always been a passion of hers. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do since I was in high school, but I never really pursued it in college until I transferred to London in 1999 and graduated with a minor in fine arts,” she says, “Since I enjoyed it so much, I took a Summer School Foundation course at the Slade School of Fine Art in 2000 and later on pursued postgraduate studies in art history at Goldsmiths College in 2002.”

All the works featured in “Le Premiere Exposition” showcase a technique Kate’s been experimenting with since her days as a starving art student in London. Each painting was made with chemically frozen paint and ice cubes that she let melt onto the canvas, creating the vibrant, texturized and larger-than-life abstracts hanging in the Prose Gallery. The artist actually credits her struggle to make ends meet as the muse behind her methods. With deadlines fast approaching for students at the Slade School to finish their pieces for their summer show, Kate had no other choice but to explore the unconventional.

“The source of inspiration for my work was due to my poverty-stricken days,” she says, “The money I was supposed to use for my art materials all went to my rent because I had a prospective flat mate who backed out at the last minute! I sat on a bench for a whole day trying to figure out a way to paint without having to use expensive materials… the moral of the story is being broke rocks, in the creative sense!”

Kate then ran the idea of using frozen paint by her professors, who referred her to an art specialist store. After Kate explained her idea to them, they recommended she use a mixture of a non-toxic chemical with water and paint.

“I was quite pleased with the outcome, but was only able to use it and didn’t get the chance to make further experiments until recently,” she says, “Since I started painting in Manila, I’ve been using acrylic since it’s a more flexible medium than oil, I think. The only difference from my previous work is that now I’ve separated the paint and the ice… basically, the ice works as my paintbrush now.”

The paintings featured in “Le Premiere Exposition” elegantly balance out the intellectual and the aesthetic aspects without completely bewildering or alienating the audience — an impact many abstract artists are guilty of leaving, which is why Kate’s work is winning the hearts of art connoisseurs and first-time enthusiasts alike. Her paintings are a visual playground for the mind’s eye, flaunting texture, movement and color without being ostentatious or self-important. Each piece is “bursting with fruit flavor,” in the jolly words of the artist, acting as Alice’s looking glass to a Wonderland that embraces everyone’s inner child. Kate’s paintings were given equally whimsical titles such as “Don’t Be Koi” and “Myopic Monet” to cleverly match the mood they evoke.

“I played around with names and song titles,” she says, “For example, I named ‘Faux Smith’ and ‘False Smith’ because the colors I used were very much similar to those used by the British designer Paul Smith.”

Kate’s use of ultra-modern, experimental techniques also illustrates a strong connection to her artistic influences. The artist feels a strong affinity for painters who have carefully scrutinized, completely shattered and boldly redefined the laws of traditional art throughout history.

“I admire Leonardo Da Vinci for being a Renaissance man, Caravaggio for his chiaroscuro, Piet Mondrian for his obsessive compulsive disorder, H.R. Ocampo for his colors and Nena Saguil for dedicating her entire life to her work.”

Whatever the future holds for her, it’s clear that Katherine Santos — with her thirst for the unconventional, undeniable talent and delightfully charismatic personality — is ready to go town and have a good laugh painting the art world any darn color she wants. For now, we can only wait and imagine what conventions she’ll challenge next and where in our minds the visual results will take us. As the late Dr. Seuss might put it, “Oh, the places she’ll go”!

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For more about Kate Santos’ work, visit the Prose Gallery on 832 Arnaiz Ave. cor. Paseo de Roxas, Makati City or text the artist at +63917-836-9112. Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Young Star

Malapascua? Malissimmo!
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, July 13, 2007
When a country is so dependent on tourism as a catalyst for its economic growth, one would expect all those who work in the industry to provide travelers with nothing less than a perfect glimpse of paradise. This is especially true for the Philippines, which offers 7,107 island versions of a traveler’s paradise, each one promising a unique and phenomenal experience for adventure-seeking locals and globetrotting foreigners alike. Sadly, this was far from what my friends and I encountered during a recent visit to Malapascua Island.

We’d been planning the trip for months; Malapascua was at the top of our checklist of islands in the Philippines to visit. Four months after meticulous planning and making arrangements for transportation and accommodations, the five of us jumped on a plane that shotgunned us to Cebu for the beach trip we’d all been dreaming of.

The various articles I read about Malapascua spoke of an island getaway that rivaled the overly commercialized Boracay, with marine biodiversity, well-preserved beaches and the laid-back seclusion tourists no longer find in the better-known spot. Upon our arrival, my friends and I were ecstatic to discover that all these claims were true. There were no malls, ATMs or franchise restaurants on the island and we welcomed the peace and quiet it had to offer. We had arranged to stay at what our online research told us was the most beautiful private resort on the island, located far away from the busy strip of resorts, bars and restaurants on Bounty Beach. The owner of the resort was extremely accommodating upon our arrival and even prepared a home-cooked lunch for us with fresh vegetables and herbs from her organic garden. Her jovial personality was difficult to ignore and I couldn’t help but be excited about all the activities she encouraged us to try on the island.

After loading up on fresh, grilled king prawns, my friends and I ran to our beach cottages to change into our swimsuits and explore the island. After getting lost in a residential area and turning the heads of many locals while we wandered the streets, we finally found our way to Bounty Beach and immediately jumped in the water to swim out. One of my friends chose not to brave the high tide and strong current and instead offered to keep an eye on our belongings. He was approached by a local almost immediately, who offered to take our group on a boat trip around Malapascua and to the island of Carnassa for an incredibly low price. When we swam back to shore and sat down for a drink at a nearby restaurant, my friend told us about the offer and we all agreed to venture out the next day. The man who approached my friend lingered at the bar and waited while we made our decision. We told him we were very interested and asked if it was possible to schedule the trip the next day. He agreed and even walked us halfway back to our resort so we wouldn’t get lost again.

Back at our resort, over a sumptuous dinner of blue crabs in coconut milk, we told the owner about our plans to go island hopping the next day and she agreed to coordinate with the man we spoke to (the small community on the island assures that everyone knows each other) and prepare a picnic lunch that we could take with us while we were out. What I found strange, however, was the way she reacted when we asked her if we could pay her after each of our meals in order to monitor our expenses wisely. She simply brushed aside our request and asked if she could do it another time. It was getting pretty late, so we told her it wasn’t a problem and went to bed, anxious for our boat trip the next day.

We slept so well that we woke up later than we had intended and our boatmen had been waiting for quite some time (they were outside our cottages) when we finally gathered our things after breakfast and prepared to leave. In our excitement to leave and explore Malapascua and Carnassa, no one noticed that the man with whom we made the arrangements to go island hopping did not get on the boat with us.

Instead of heading out immediately to Carnassa, we decided to stock up on drinks and ice and asked the boatmen if we could make a stop to buy some. Once we filled up our cooler with enough beer, water and soda to last the day, the boatmen surprisingly took another detour and told us they had been charged to deliver some supplies to another resort. We agreed but were alarmed afterwards when they informed us we had to make yet another detour to Logon because they needed to buy fuel for the boat. If they knew they were scheduled to take a group of people to another island the day before, why didn’t they make sure they had a full tank of gas? Nevertheless, we viewed it as only a minor setback and agreed to pay for the gas so long as the amount would be subtracted from the total cost of our day trip. The boatmen agreed and soon enough we were back to our original itinerary.

After a morning of jumping on and off our boat to explore several popular snorkeling spots around the islands, my group stopped to have lunch at Carnassa Island. We asked the boatmen if it was possible to buy cigarettes and they gladly offered to get some for us. I noticed that one of my friend’s expressions changed after sifting through her wallet for change but simply assumed she was tired. Before we got back on the boat, she told us to mind our belongings but I didn’t think anything of it because she is the most responsible one in our group and in my haste to leave that morning, forgot that I locked my wallet away in my luggage.

We arrived back at our resort in the afternoon to have coffee and chat with the resort owner again. Once again, we inquired if she could give us an estimate of what we currently owed her so we could plan activities over the next few days that would work within our budget. Once again, she asked if we could give her till the next day to calculate our current bill. Reluctantly, we agreed and went back to our beach cottages to shower and rest before dinner.

Over dinner, we discussed our plans to go scuba diving the next day with the resort owner and she informed us that she could make the necessary arrangements and gave us an idea of the cost. She also promised to have our current bill and a breakdown of our expenses ready by the next morning. Feeling reassured, my friends and I decided to buy beer and soda from the bar so we could drink at our beach cottages and relax for the rest of the evening.

Upon returning to our room, my best friend’s boyfriend decided to count his cash so he could set some aside for scuba diving the next day. When he reached into his backpack for the brown envelope in which he’d placed all the cash he’d brought along for our trip — and certainly no amount to sneeze at — he was horrified to realize it was missing. My best friend and I immediately helped him turn our beach cottage inside out, searching through our belongings and every inch of the room with almost surgical precision. The rest of our valuables were right where we had left them; only my friend’s envelope of cash was missing. “There was no way anyone could have taken the cash,” we told him. “We had made sure to lock the door to our cottage each time we left.” How could we have been robbed? He then walked into our bathroom and pulled back the curtain to find that the window right above our sink was wide open. None of us had touched that window since we checked into the resort.

My friend ran over to report the incident to the owner of the resort while my best friend and I kept searching the room for his envelope of cash,
refusing to accept that someone would just sneak into our cottage and steal from us. Up until that point, everyone on the island had been so nice to us. Now that I look back, perhaps they had been too nice to us. When we told the two of our other friends what had happened, one of them said that earlier, she had told us to mind our things on the boat because she found some cash missing from her wallet when she gave the boatmen money to buy cigarettes. She didn’t tell us about it because she had been hoping it was a miscalculation on her part and that she had simply brought less money that day than she thought. Once she went over to check on her cash, however, her suspicions were confirmed, and so were ours. My friends had been robbed.

The resort owner didn’t do too much to help us; neither did the authorities she contacted. She called the barangay captain to report the incident only to find that he was drunk and too incoherent to be of any assistance at all. We inspected the perimeter of our cottage and found several footprints outside our bathroom window. We realized then that there was no use in pursuing the matter any further. The money was gone, and it was highly unlikely that such a tight-knit island community would rat out one of their own for a group of tourists. With neither cash nor a sense of security left, my friends and I decided that the most logical thing to do would be to leave Malapascua as soon as possible. All five of us slept in the same cottage that night while violent rains washed away the footprints we found outside our bathroom window.

Over breakfast the next morning, the resort owner did little to console us. She rambled on about her own feelings and how nothing like that had ever happened in her resort, but our attention waned when we realized how futile it was to listen. I would imagine that if I were her, I would do everything in my power to right the situation instead of offering a soliloquy punctuated with a hefty bill. She did little to compensate my friend for his loss and I can only imagine how much the situation would worsen if our other friends hadn’t brought extra cash to spot my friend for his expenses. It breaks my heart because we were having such a nice time up until my friends were robbed. I’m also extremely disappointed to learn that a community so dependent on tourism would do so little to help those who serve as the very source of their income. It saddens my friends and I that our impressions of Malapascua are severely tarnished now that we feel the island’s beauty only serves as a distraction from the exact same social realities we sought to escape by leaving the city. At least in Manila, you expect people to try and rob you blind without the smoke and mirrors. Needless to say, the next time my friends and I decide to take a vacation together, I’m recommending a visit to my family in Davao.

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Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Young Star

Continental drift
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, June 22, 2007
All that is gold does not glitter,

not all those who wander are lost;

the old that is strong does not wither,

deep roots are not reached by the frost.— J.R.R. Tolkien

Sometime in the middle of last year, I realized that I lost my heart. It wasn’t stolen or broken by the glorified love affairs that daytime soaps and Hollywood blockbusters feed our subconscious; it had gradually eroded over time.

I got lost in a life that I thought I wanted, only to realize that I was trying to trick myself into thinking I was complete. My failed ruse left me longing for a substantial existence, one that allowed me to be brutally honest with myself and to act upon, instead of conceal, my true feelings. I decided that it was time to stop pretending to be all right. But instead of retreating to my room to drown myself in pirated DVDs and buckets of Chicken Joy, I made the choice to be proactive about my depression. I thought back to the last time I felt truly happy and realized that I would never feel that way again unless I recovered my heart.

When you lose your heart, what do you do to find it? I was willing to do everything it would take. I decided to map out the things I had lost over the past year and learned that I had said goodbye to so many people when I moved back to Manila. Then, when I couldn’t admit how crippled I was because I needed those I left behind so much, I continued to shut more people out. I tried to fill the gap their absences had made in my life with things that only left me feeling emptier. I realized that the relationships that used to make up a significant portion of my life were stunted by the physical and emotional distance I had been placing between myself and the people I shared them with. It was time to resuscitate all that.

Without even thinking twice, I bought several plane tickets, cleaned the dust off my suitcase and filled it with clothes fit for three continents. I would travel around the world if that’s what it would take to find my heart again. And as soon as I could, I jumped on a plane to the first destination on my list.

I touched down in the Narita airport to join my father and his side of the family for a vacation my grandfather had been planning for a while. We hadn’t been together like this for a while, nor did we know when we would have the time in the near future. I had lost touch with my family when I started working, and reunions became another obligation to fulfill instead of downtime with the craziest people I know, people who, at the end of the day, still love me unconditionally.

I didn’t waste any time reconnecting with them. My cousins and I tried on new personas like outfits and tried to find our selves amid the busy city streets. I sat with my grandparents and talked about my plans for the future, ecstatic to hear their support for my decision to become a journalist. I walked the streets of Tokyo with my father to fill in the cracks that had formed in our relationship when he separated from my mom, and later on, when my journey into adulthood caused us to drift further apart. When I left Tokyo, I learned that family’s something you’re stuck with ‘til the day you die. There’s really no point in avoiding all those crazy people. While they may resemble a disorganized telenovela on a bad day, life without them is never complete — especially when your family’s as cool as mine.

The next plane I jumped on took me to America, where I touched base with family from my mom’s side and a few of my high school friends. It was weird to see my cousins after eight years of being away from each other, yet find that somehow we still finish each other’s sentences (with lines from our token ‘80s movies like The Cutting Edge) and “get” each other the way kids who grew up together do.

We rehashed our issues and the dramatic occurrences we experienced coming into adulthood over milkshakes and fries and sang out loud to songs from our super-secret teenybopper phase. I leaned my head against the backseat window of cars and journeyed to the California desert with high school friends, ‘80s pop music, The Arcade Fire’s Tunnels and LCD Soundsystem’s North American Scum blaring in the background. We ran buck wild from tent to tent at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, eager to catch all our favorite bands in that desert heat. Crazy traffic jams, going in scary Port-A-Johns and getting lost in the desert are totally worth it if you’ve got good friends and an awesome soundtrack. By the end of what I can only describe as a phenomenal, three-day eargasm, I realized how good it feels to be part of something that’s bigger than you.

I hopped on another airplane, this time to fly me across the country and all the way to Miami. I went to stay with my best guy friend from college and was amazed at how being together again managed to shift our schedules back to the way they were when we were still in college. We woke up in the afternoon and walked around, people-watching and restaurant-hopping. I told him I wasn’t allowed to spend any more money on clothes, so he took me shopping at the CVS down his street. We rented DVDs and puffed through entire packs of Parliaments ‘til dawn.

We made pancakes and bacon after hitting the clubs and talked about how much things had changed and how only now we realized how much we loved Lugano — the Swiss town where we went to college — after we had left it. When we went to visit my college roommate’s parents in Key Biscayne, her mother made me a Brazilian potion of herbs to wash away my bad luck. I didn’t actually think it would work, but before my plane from America to Switzerland landed in Zurich, I found a few hundred dollars tucked away among my things.

I was finally on the last leg of my trip, headed to the town where I had spent four years of my life. From Zurich I lugged my beat-up suitcase onto a train that would finally take me to Lugano. I saw the picture-perfect mountains and lakes of Canton Ticino zip past my window and wept when I recognized what I was feeling — I was finally coming home.

I arrived in Lugano just in time to see my younger friends graduate and reunite with the people who became my second family in the years I was living away from the Philippines. Several of my college friends and I had been planning to return to our second home to send off the class of 2007 and spend some time together. Lugano had clearly changed, but what it meant to us was still the same. We did all the things we used to do together, from bitching about relationships in our pajamas to pretending to be dodgy characters by the fountain downtown to telling jokes over cheese fondue. I know that until we become billionaires with our own private jets to cart us off between continents, being all together in the same place will only get harder as we get older. I discovered that I wasn’t the only person worried about what I had left behind. My bond with my second family grew even stronger this time. None of us really know where the future will take us, or where we belong for that matter; however, as long as we care enough to make the effort, I know we’ll never truly be apart again.

Three weeks went by and, once again, I was leaving Lugano. I packed my suitcase with the precision and accuracy of someone accustomed to saying goodbye. But this time, the tragic possibility that I might never see my second home again was overshadowed by the hope that my new memories brought me. I stood by the closing door of my train to Zurich and watched my friends wave goodbye through teary eyes and hopeful smiles. My heart felt heavy in my chest but it was the first time I’d actually felt it there in over a year.

It was then that I realized that leaving the place you call home doesn’t matter if you do everything it takes to stay connected with the people who give it meaning. The experiences I’ve had around the world would mean absolutely nothing if it weren’t for the friends and family I shared them with. At the risk of sounding like a bad Hallmark card, I know now that home’s not a place. It’s a feeling. I’m back in Manila now and may be more broke than MC Hammer, but I’ll take a heart full of good memories over a closet full of parachute pants any day.

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Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com

Cult of Personality

Written for the Philippine Star
By: Francesca Ayala

Art Direction: Tara Almario
Styling: Francesca Ayala and Carmina Santos
Photography and Post Production by Bong Rojales for Sparklelabs and Lomomanila
Photography Support by Ross Baua
Lomography by Bong Rojales, JM Epilepsia and Marco De La Torre
Post Production by Anne and Inna for Sparklelabs
Studio Shots of the Shoes by The Lightroom
Models: Inez Moro, Isabel Santos, Michael Plotteck, Oliver Fiedler, Niña Defensor, Theresa Crettenand

Every aspiring entrepreneur knows it takes a lot of moxie to show people that you mean business. While originality may serve as a good enough unique selling point for the average entrepreneur, it’s charisma that marks a truly gifted businessman. This is the first thing everyone notices about Neil Paras, the brains and talent behind NJ Sneakers. The je ne sais quoi that this young entrepreneur possesses makes it nearly impossible not to fall in love with him immediately. Once you get to talking, the soft spoken19 year-old’s demeanor immediately takes a backseat to an inalienable sense of determination and purpose that are normally uncharacteristic of others his age.

Neil’s life so far can be characterized as anything but ordinary. Although he admits to having had his fair share of tumultuous times and momentous experiences, the resilience and cool with which he recounts them exude a wisdom that some adults may never find. This maturity, partnered with irresistible charm and mind-blowing vision, are bound to render Neil as a viable power player in the business and fashion worlds.

Born into a family of artists (his older brother is designer John Paras) and art collectors (his grandmother collects paintings from artists such as Joya and Manansala), Neil’s original plan was to work in politics. The ingénue began to study Diplomatic Affairs at La Salle’s College of Saint Benilde until his undeniable need to scratch that creative itch and a well-timed twist of fate routed him on a completely different life trajectory.

Bored with the uninspiring monotony of existing trends, the artist and self-confessed fashionista decided to use his skills as a painter to express his signature style and began to customize his own sneakers. Drawing inspiration from notable characters (both fictional and actual) he’d encountered in the past, Neil meticulously transformed plain, white Vans into wearable, stylized portraits of distinctive personas. What began as a few personalized pairs quickly developed into a collection of contemporary footwear featuring modern diptychs of characters ranging from iconic pop culture symbols to mysterious gothic entities to provocative female nudes. Neil wanted every single pair in his collection to “communicate the story behind each personality”. He also took his art a step further by using his shoes to depict the existing dualities that exist in a persona. Soon enough, Neil’s unorthodox canvases caught the discerning eye of Manila style icon and ultimate scenester, Tim Yap. In fact, he bought out half of Neil’s first collection (September 2006) immediately after viewing it.

“I established my own business in a six month span,” says Neil, “Tim saw the potential in my work and was very supportive from the beginning. I’m thankful for that.”

Word quickly got round that NJ Sneakers offered one-of-a-kind, hand-painted shoes that stood out against the popular, glamorized urban brands that bastardized underground art in repetitive designs. The fabulous fashion renegades who didn’t care to fit in flocked to the brand, yearning for a taste of true individuality. Along with Tim Yap, Neil gained a celebrity following which included the likes of celebrated fashion plates like actor JM Rodriguez and Saga Productions’ owner and runway aficionado Robbie Carmona. Soon, scenesters and hipsters alike took to Neil’s masterpieces and the demand for NJ Sneakers grew so immensely that he began to outsource artists from Hong Kong and Japan to meet the needs of his rapidly expanding customer base. It became pretty obvious to the young entrepreneur then that when it comes down to business, the shoe definitely fits.

Neil has since shifted his course of study to Entrepreneurship and has big plans for the future, which include opening a boutique of his own. Between finishing school, running a business and spending time with his parents and siblings, you’d think your average 19 year-old would be in way over his head. Then again, Neil is anything but average. And for him, a hectic schedule only means he’s one step closer to his dream.

“I see the shoes as a stepping stone to something bigger,” he says, “I want the brand to be universal, not just a trend. In order to do this, I need to expand my line… Maybe I could even work with my brother [John] in the future.”

Despite the endless possibilities and international influences on the brand, part of Neil’s long-term plan is to incorporate a more homegrown flavor to NJ Sneakers. He plans to feature the works of local artists and depict artistically rendered variants of the Philippine flag in his next collection as a personal testimonial to the talents of the Filipinos. Neil feels it’s important to recognize the talent we have and hopes to revive the sense of national pride that seems lost with our generation. Sure, it may seem like a tall order, but for Neil, it’s just the beginning.

It’s quite clear that Neil Paras is going places. But unlike most people who find themselves moving up in the world, he’s managed to keep his feet on the ground. And in totally slinkster-cool shoes.

“I’m very grateful for everything that’s happened to me,” he says, “As long as people continue to appreciate what I do, I’m happy to always make sure I have something special to offer them.”

He pauses to smile and says, “I’m really lucky.”

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To find out more about NJ Sneakers, check out www.neilparas.multiply.com. Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Young Star

Harajuku heydays
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
Friday, May 25, 2007
Page: 1
During my trip to Tokyo, I arrived in the Narita airport with a single mission: to ransack the back streets of Harajuku, Tokyo’s famed and over-promoted youth fashion district, for some utterly unique and fabulous finds to feed my long-starved closet. Despite Harajuku’s over-popularization through Gwen Stefani’s maniacal obsession with the district dwellers’ style as mentioned (and mispronounced) in her album (which I still listen to frequently), “Love.Angel.Music.Baby,” I was determined to get to the root of all the hype and figure out what exactly it is about this fashion-forward subculture that has the whole world so fascinated. Clearly, the fixation on Harajuku as an unmatched forerunner of underground and uniquely Asian style isn’t limited to photojournalists for international, glamorized indie publications and former American happy-ska divas turned global pop stars. According to Wikipedia, The Clash’s Joe Strummer wrote a song called Sanposuru Harajuku (A Stroll Through Harajuku), which he performed in 2002 with his then-current band, The Mescaleros, and Harajuku is even used as an avatar style on Second Life. Belle and Sebastian also mention Harajuku in their song I’m a Cuckoo, on their 2003 album “Dear Catastrophe Waitress” (which I adore just as much as “Love.Angel.Music.Baby”).

I’d been to Harajuku before on previous trips to Tokyo, back when Gothic Lolita and Rockabilly were still widespread fashion statements and I was not in the position to ask my dad for shopping allowance to buy overpriced, outlandish clothes that would make me look even more like jail bait. I remember trudging open-mouthed beneath the arch that marked Takeshita-dori, utterly mesmerized and completely freaked out by the PVC and lace baby-doll dresses, towering platform shoes and platinum pomade hairdos that promenaded past me. These teens and twenty-somethings spurned by a culture that prides itself on principles of restraint totally blew my mind. I couldn’t help blatantly staring at the bizarre outfits, made even more conspicuous by the modest sashays and bowed heads they were partnered with. What these people held back in terms of demeanor, they overcompensated for in terms of personal style. My exposure to Harajuku style revealed a new way of looking at fashion — as a quiet means to rebel against the cookie-cutter norms of society without directly affecting anyone else — which I learned to adopt as a healthier means of blowing off steam during my formative years.

During my most recent homage to Harajuku, I noticed that Western fashion is making a more prominent impression on the subculture. Brands such as Bathing Ape and Vans fill up display windows and teenagers are dressed like Camden punks and Haight Street bohemians. Stores now sell shirts advertising CBGB’s and iconic American rock bands from The New York Dolls to Guns N’ Roses to Weezer. Other boutiques blast hip-hop while shop girls in Daisy Dukes wearing ghetto-fabulous hoop earrings and towering ponytails dance as they fold barely-there jersey tube dresses. Instead of schoolgirls flashing the peace sign for my camera, I found blonde surfer girls with flawless spray tans (in the spring) and crocheted sweaters.

These days, punk rock, the Beatnik movement, ’80s revival fashion and ’90s Industrial Goth have emerged as dominant trends in Harajuku. However, fashion fiends have used their uninhibited sense of style to amplify these trends in a manner nothing short of genius. In the same way that Pop Art raised its eyebrows at elitist attitudes, Harajuku’s exaggerated take on Western culture calls for a closer look. While the beliefs that fueled these style movements may have been lost in translation, the Japanese use pure aesthetics in a way that borders on satirical. For such a reticent people, the way Harajuku kids dress certainly speaks volumes to keen observers. Yeah, Western culture seems to have permeated Harajuku’s signature style, but the Tokyo fashionistas have managed to adopt it and metamorphose elements once unique to the West into quiet, beautiful and quirky overstatements that remain, at the end of the day, uniquely Japanese. However the trends may continue to evolve in Harajuku over time, there’s no doubt the whole world’s watching. Way to go.

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Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@ hotmail.com.

I Heart My Art
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
The Philippine STAR 04/20/2007

I was not a "creative "writing or " literature major in college — although those two subjects were immensely integrated into my course work. I majored in Visual and Communication Arts. While I merely dabbled in studio art in exchange for honing my proficiency to develop into the writer I am today, my first love will always and forever be art. Some people invest in the stock market. I invest in local couture and pieces for my art collection. I used to favor Art Nouveau, but after a global pilgrimage to both illustrious and offbeat galleries and two very fulfilling and enlightening experiences internships at the Ateneo Art Gallery and the Ayala Museum, I’ve come to realize that modern and contemporary art possess the power to strike a chord in my soul, one that’s only been previously tickled by notions of true love.

It sounds awfully romanticized, but what the artistically unapprised don’t understand about art is that while a certain aesthetic is usually involved, it is about so much more than representation. To the trained eye, art does more than imitate life; it creates it by extracting specific feelings from the observer. Whether the pieces evoke humor, suffering, desire or disgust, it is this exact power to unlock the spectator’s emotions and challenge his imagination that makes art so damn irresistible to me.

This summer, I would like to implore my fellow artsy fartsies (and even art newbies) to explore the work that Manila artists have to offer. Whether your search takes you to high-end, online or cul-de-sac galleries, be prepared for the sensory expedition that these local artists have constructed for you to indulge in. When you go and have a look, make sure you open more than just your eyes. I assure you that once the journey is over, you’ll understand that for these (and every other) artists, art is more than something to look at. It is something that helps you see.

Yes, it’s F-ing political!

27+20’s design duo, Nico Puertollano and Katwo Librando (yup, she’s the one who used to slam-dance with a megaphone onstage for Narda) have collaborated to open their first show, called "Vote for Sale." The exhibit in Saguijo’s Theo Gallery is a paradoxical portrayal of politics versus pop culture. Nico’s skateboard art features "a dirty ménage-a-trois of politics, skateboarding and our pre-Hispanic language." Boards are painted and stenciled with words in alibata, patterns composed of the peso symbol and colors of the Philippine flag, all destined to grind against the asphalt streets of a city on the decline. Paired with Nico’s boards are Katwo’s hilarious caricature illustrations of celebrities portrayed on pseudo-political campaign posters. Katwo’s work pokes fun at society’s irrepressible fascination with famous persons and blatant aloofness when it comes to pressing socioeconomic issues that actually do have very grave consequences. Both adorable and absurd, these improbable juxtapositions "speak of a world where The Cute is placed side by side with The Propaganda, a celebrity culture which seduces our sensibilities and exploits or suspension of disbelief while we slowly submit our will to political apathy and think that we can’t deny ourselves this form of shallow entertainment." "Vote for Sale" is a perfectly executed satire that brings current political issues to light in a remarkably whimsical and poignant collection.

Check out 27+20’s "Vote for Sale" exhibit at the Theo Gallery of Café Saguijo, Guijo St., San Antonio Village, Makati City.

Stranger In The Night

Celebrated scenester, contemporary artist and CCP 13 Artists Awards 2003 winner Kiko Escora is no stranger to the art world. His artwork has certainly left an unwavering imprint on both the local and international market, and has been shown at galleries and museums in Malaysia, Singapore, Korea, Thailand and all over Manila. Kiko’s distinctive ability to silently observe the driving forces behind everyday human interaction and reproduce them in visually seductive and arresting pieces have undoubtedly placed him among top-ranking luminaries in contemporary art. Kiko’s pieces coerce observers to scrutinize the countless facades that naturally come into play when we interact with one another, and confront viewers with hidden truths revealed only by the subtleties of body language and facial reactions. His work is an uncompromising exposé of the darker nature behind human emotions, revealing to observers the uncanny beauty of our vulnerability to instincts we cannot control.

"My work deals mostly with the interaction, or lack of it, among individuals," Kiko says. "All of us, in varying degrees, experience these situations. My own experience as a participant observer of these ‘rituals’ often becomes the germ for most of my work."

The artist’s latest exhibit, titled "Map of the Problematique," features mystifying charcoal portraits of the dark and lovely denizens of Manila’s underground nightlife. While each piece features an exceptionally unconventional personality, all together they make the collection as a whole radiate with a beauty so strangely compelling and powerful that it shines through the protective veneer of curtain-like bangs, oversized dark glasses, Kohl-lined eyes, bandana-covered faces and shroud-like hoodies.

Catch "Map of the Problematique" at the Drawing Room Gallery, Metrostar Bldg., 1007 Metropolitan Ave., Makati City.

Art-House Underdogs

It’s no secret that the Philippines is teeming with a multitude of talented artists just waiting to be discovered. However, during attempts to produce an amazing, inimitable artistic tour de force that could garner them superstar status, a lot of them are rendered stagnant by Quixotic ideals and oftentimes forget that good art is as much about creating new perspectives on existing realities as it is about constructing entirely new ones. This is the driving philosophy behind many of today’s promising artists studying Multimedia Arts at La Salle’s College of Saint Benilde. The common thread between recent exhibits held by several of these students lies in their uncanny gift to re-examine existing elements of everyday life that are often overlooked by most people. Among those to watch are multifaceted artists Franco Ocampo, Alex Pelayo and Ryan Tan. These urban adventurers don’t fit your conventional definition of "the next big thing" because their work doesn’t aim to do that. They are renegade artists who, despite their contrasting styles, share a predilection for capturing the beauty that glimmers through the seemingly harsh and gritty realties of today.

"We believe that we can all relate these to our everyday lives," says Franco. "We can always choose to see the negative in things, but if we want to make life brighter and easier, we should choose to see the colors of life… it’s really what you choose to see."

Franco’s meticulous eye for the unconventional is made evident in his graphically enhanced photographs that reveal the colors, patterns and rhythm produced by the city dwellers and industrial structures that make up the urban landscape. Alex’s vivid and inventive use of color manipulation brings out a beautifully supernatural element to ordinary photographs of nature, giving onlookers a haunting perspective on familiar images. Ryan’s paintings, though abstract, display very deliberate emotions in his brush strokes, giving a double aesthetic to his work — which is as much about the movements used in creating the painting as the overall visual of the piece.

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I would recommend e-mailing Franco (ocnarf_83@yahoo.com), Alex (reefersativa@yahoo.com) and Ryan (ryisrye@yahoo.com) and investing in these boys’ work before the rest of market catches on.

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If you have any upcoming exhibits you’d like me to feature or work you think I’d be interested in investing in, please don’t hesitate to e-mail me at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com. Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome.

Hot child in the city
WHIPPER SNAPPER By Francesca Ayala
The Philippine STAR 04/13/2007

I liken the way summer hits Manila to being thrown into the mosh pit of a rock concert heaving with sweaty, head-banging, hip-gyrating, fist-pumping fiends grooving as hard as they can to your favorite song while you’re tossed around like Hell’s Angels’ pinball. It comes out of nowhere, takes you by surprise and before you know it, everyone’s having more fun than you are. The heat wave surges into the city, eradicating the final traces of cool weather and with it, the smell of the last time it rained. The calm and almost romantic atmosphere in the city is immediately replaced by a dizzying, chaotic season that dedicated 9-to-5ers like myself are doomed to experience only from the prison of their cubicles. In the few steps it takes to get to my car, my eye makeup melts right into my cleavage and that hint of perfume I strategically placed behind each ear is overpowered by the scent of my body’s reaction to the heat, which smells as if I went clubbing on EDSA. Central air conditioning in the building I work in turns off at 4:30 on the dot, and I work till 7:00. Whoever said that women glow instead of sweat clearly did not work in my building at the height of summer. I can’t help but miss being a student once summer rolls around. Lunch breaks at the mall begin to feel claustrophobic because every place I go is peppered with students on summer break, fueled by an excitement only familiar to me after 10 cups of instant coffee. Even cocktails after work don’t seem to do the trick anymore because my favorite nighttime haunts have been invaded by minors in miniskirts and college students with credit cards. I feel like a doomed joyless spinster saying it (and hopefully others will share my sentiment), but I can’t help but miss being like those kids.

Although my heart goes a bit squishy at the thought of being 17 again, the reality check that immediately follows those brief moments of summer-induced, self-indulgent existential anguish does highlight a major perk in my book. Sure, I miss being in college, living on an allowance and most of all, going on summer vacation, but now that I work for The Man, I also happen to make my own money. And it’s quite surprising how much retail therapy can raise your spirits. This season, I’ve decided that being confined to the city with my fellow 9-to-5ers shouldn’t equate to depriving myself of the summertime spirit. Just because I can’t hit the beach like everyone else doesn’t mean summer in the city has to be a total drag. Sure, it’s not what it used to be, but I figured that channeling my frustration to these fantastic, fabulous and totally fashionable finds will make pounding away on my keyboard in the heat totally worth it. Who knows? Maybe when the minors in miniskirts see how a paycheck and some serious retail therapy can be all the sunshine you need in a seriously sweltering season, they might be just a little bit jealous of me.
Urban Outfitters
Wherever you wander, you’ve got to have soul. This summer, mischief making and day-tripping in the Manila metropolis isn’t complete without the hottest name in RTW right now. That’s Analog Soul, a brand making waves for its funky shirts, hoodies, bags and jackets. With highly stylized graphics and collaborations with artists such as Pepper Roxas, Lala Gallardo and Mike Sicam, and endorsers such as DJ Owens Sun, DJ Marie Garcia, and rock band Fastpitch, Analog Soul is definitely not your run-of-the-mill shirt shop. The brand successfully stands out against the tired, mass-produced, clever catchphrases and mundane graphics featured in countless display windows around the country. Analog Soul’s versatile style easily transcends the typical — being tropical, urban, Eastern and Western all at once — in search of true individuality. The results? Hip, edgy fashion for amplified living.

Check out Analog Soul’s store at the Rockwell Power Plant, or visit www.analog-soul.com or www.analogsoul.multiply.com for more information.
BohemiAna Like You
Artist and jewelry designer Ana Villalon’s pieces for her jewelry line, BohemiAna, have adorned exclusive members of society’s young elite for years. PR maven Celine Gabriel, model Cat Juan and Young STAR columnist Michelle Katigbak are avid fans of these bright, funky and elegant knockout pieces, each an embodiment of Ana’s charming and vivacious personality. BohemiAna features capiz shells hand-painted by Ana and adorned with precious metal and gemstone embellishments. The designs range from tropical fauna to religious iconography to vibrant caricatures. The little firecracker fashionista recently released her BohemiAna Luxe line, which features jewelry boxes containing personalized charms and pendants inspired by "sun-drenched coastlines, breezy tropical winds and turquoise, warm waters," which you can mix and match to make bracelets and necklaces. This summer, ditch your bulky Swarovski bling for something light, playful and classy such as the pieces BohemiAna has to offer.

Check out BohemiAna’s Luxe collection at ROSITI Jewels, 114 V. Rufino Bldg., Legazpi Village, Makati City or log on to www.bohemiana.com for more information.
Starchaser
Just because you can’t hit the beach doesn’t mean you have to succumb to a pale-skinned summer! You can work on your tan wherever you want to, whether it’s by the pool, in the front yard or right on your balcony. Just make sure you’ve got a killer suit on to match that hot new complexion. Check out the glimmering, multihued and sexy designs of beach-hopping artist and designer Twinkle Ferraren, whose swimsuits and beachwear have been spotted at popular summer getaways from Boracay to Batangas. The sweet, petite designer’s individualistic approach to design (she can make washable dresses out of paper), unique concepts (her fashion week collection was inspired by jellyfish) and meticulous eye for detail have made her a notable ingénue in the design industry.

"I love designing and making my own patterns and printing my art doodles on clothes," the designer says. "For summer ’07, I’ve decided to play around more with that concept, mixing and matching materials and fabrics to create the look."

Inspired by urban pulses, watercolor skies, graffiti-free art and nature, each piece in Twinkle’s summer collection is guaranteed to brighten any summer, even if it’s spent in the gloomy city.

For more information, visit www.t-w-i-n-k-l-e.com or email twixie@gmail.com.

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Wisdom and wisecracks are always welcome at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com.

Imagine my mortification when I opened the papers this morning to see that my mother had (yet again) decided to use the most embarrassing misters from my love life as material for her weekly column. I guess in a way it sums up how our relationship is: a co-dependency fueled by the love-hate dilemma and peppered with the inate desire to compete against each other (or at least make fun of the other at every possible opportunity). Enjoy.

Mom, I promise that one day I will find something embarassing about you and put it in my column... nyahahaha!

Friends, if you can tell who the boys are, then I owe you a steak dinner so you can keep your mouth shut and no one will ever know the true identities of these embarassing blips (the ones that remind you why you're single and hate men) in my love life.

 

Meet your future son-in-law
FORTyFIED By Cecile Lopez Lilles
The Philippine STAR 03/21/2007

It creeps up on every parent, this dating business. "Creeps" is appro-priate, especially when it involves young men seeking to spend time with your daughters. And it is never plea-sant. Presently, I have two daughters aged 23 and 21 who are navigating the dating arena. Let me tell you straight out that over these past gimmick-filled five years, I have aged 100 years; have met their boyfriends of various colors, shapes and sizes; and have called on all the saints for intervention in their fates. I have three more under-aged, angelic, uncorrupted, girls, who are well below the dating age and I can say with certainty that I don’t think I will be as lucky this time around and live to tell about it.

When my oldest daughter was 17 she started hanging around this boy named Moony. It might as well have been Loony, I thought. He was six-feet-two-inches tall but had a pronounced slouch that made him seem like he was deliberately shaving off a few inches from his height. He had unkempt bushy curls that seemed to have sprouted accidentally from his scalp, well against his wishes. His skin color was on the south side of pale. He sported a goatee that appeared to have only five strands of scraggly hair, each growing toward a different direction. Think "Weird Al Yankovic," that irreverent cover artist who made a killing by spoofing Michael Jackson’s Beat It.

He wore long shorts that fell four inches above his psychedelic shin-high socks, exposing a flash of pallid skin on his legs.  He wore shirts in migraine-inducing colors and patterns that screamed, "Hey, everyone, look at me!" He might have been a quiet boy but his entire packaging could provoke even the most staid of personalities.

But the coup de grâce had nothing to do with his physical attributes. He was a college dropout with a rumored history of recreational drug use. So it hit me like an intensity-seven earthquake when Francesca casually mentioned, "Mom, Moony and I have kind of hooked up." First, I had to research what the term "hook up" meant. And then I promptly had a coronary, which I thankfully survived. Anyway, I was a ball of nerves when I rushed to our counselor’s office. I spewed smoke and fire as I told her about Francesca’s boyfriend. Having helped us navigate through the maze of our mother-daughter issues, I regularly looked to her for sound advice. But not that time! I wanted her blessing for the single-bullet-in-the-head, execution-style murder of Moony. No such luck.

She dismissed my concerns with a snicker and a wave of the hand. She said, "So what if he’s out of school?  Even the great Einstein and the great Dickens were dropouts." She embarked on a lengthy monologue, completely dismissing my irrational ramblings from the equation. "Will Francesca marry him? No. Will he father her children? No! So what’s the problem?" she asked. "Stop hoping for that Harvard-educated, Boston Brahmin in Brooks Brothers to come and sweep your daughter off her feet. That’s absolutely not her type, that’s yours."

She instructed me to kill Moony with kindness instead, in order to give Francesca the liberty to get to know him in her own way and for me to trust that she would, in the end, make the right choice.

He frequented the house and occasionally joined us for dinner. I would sit at the table with my toes curled in disgust, wearing a perpetual smile while entertaining thoughts of lacing each of his spoonfuls with cyanide.

Five months later, Francesca was older and wiser, and Moony was history. I sat her down to earnestly discuss the mechanics of choosing an appropriate mate. I made it clear that lineage, social status and statements of account were absolutely of no concern to us; what she should look for was someone with a good heart, someone well-educated, with a good grasp of the work ethic, industrious and self-made. "Steer clear of spoiled beneficiaries of the Daddy and Mommy Warbucks’ charitable institution," I most emphatically declared.

Apparently, I failed to make myself clear enough!

A few years later she was commissioned by a local magazine to write the cover story on Manila’s hot rock band du jour, Smashed. She conducted two interviews with the five-member band and did the standard-operational-procedure backstage concert observation. Her article debuted to decent reviews and as her writing flourished, so did another relationship that she had kept secret at first.

When she finally asked me to meet Mr. Right Now, I was hesitant but she had me convinced by insisting that this boy had all the qualities of a "proper mate." He was industrious. He worked until late at night. He was a UP graduate. He had a steady, high-paying job and he had bought his own car with his hard-earned money.

He came at the appointed time. Our doorbell rang and Francesca ushered him in to meet me. "Mom," she said. "Meet Loyd." What stood before me was something I had never, ever encountered even in my most horrifying nightmares. He was about five feet three inches tall. He had electric blue hair bunched up in sections, which were made to jut out in stiff points with the aid of gallons of styling gel. He was dark with a wide toothy smile and a gentle face. He had an earring on each lobe and (sing it nursery rhyme-style) "a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose, and a ring at the end of his nose."

He had on a pair of trousers, several inches too long at the hem. They bunched up in folds of excess fabric on the floor, making his legs seem much shorter than they already were. He was a midget Tupac Shakur! (You know, parents: the celebrated and gunned-down gangst