It`s in the blood where oxygen flows; each vein.. it passes, carrying the necessary gas to make the heart beats but for a painter whose medium is as it is, blood is life and he’s dying to breathe.
What is essential to life doesn’t make up the necessary goals. Passion is what makes up life; medicine, business, law−these are one’s noble pursuits, but love? Beauty? Romance? Art? It’s what he wants to stay alive for.
He is the man who had tied a knot with a teacher.
He is the son of a carpenter and a mediocre loving woman.
He is the father of two vagabond children.
He is the human in love with the concept of love, with art. He adores brush strokes and dripping paints, he finds everything in the betweens of blood and water. He lives upon the four corners of canvas, in a world he describes as his own vague Utopia. He finds beauty in a monochrome surrounding and the contrary. He breathes for art. He gasps for reality. He is submerged in the pool of creativity. He lives for it. Maybe that’s the thing when you’ve fallen in love with an obscured environment, you felt everything as your own. It may not be visible to your eyes, it may be too fictional.. but it was a certain bliss on an uncertain world. And for him, it’s all that matters.
Yes, he is a painter.
His works revolved upon the idea of superficiality, beyond the extent of what modern art has done; it is better than fiction, braver and much fiercer. Every painting beholds an urge to fight, an alarm in such contagious and sinuous world of philosophy and beliefs. His paintings are all etched upon the passion of love and patriotism. He paints for his works to live−to felicitate, to cry, to remorse, to bliss out.
You may think, nothing ever stays when you’re already dead. People will eventually forget you, skies will never be beautiful for you, and moon will not always there to light you up anymore. Somehow, pity will always be there but physical ones? Would there be?
This has been his philosophy: life after death. Eventually, you’re gonna meet your period because life is nothing but a sentence; it will always have its end. People reincarnate, and you, yourself, as today.. is also just a reiteration. That’s why sometimes, you encounter occurrences you felt like already happened. You experience dejavus and felt indifferent. That’s what his trying to convey−after his death.. and upon his new life on another chance, he will be able to recognize his works because his blood stays up there on the canvas. As what the cliche means, for every part of you that you’re going to perceive and conceive.. your blood leaps; there was this sudden rush of euphoria inside you because for a fractured time, you have recognized a once lost part as yours.
He is still the usual man.
You can see him by afar in the Roseville Subdivision busy working as a president; He’ll have his land cruiser depart at around 8:30 am to work as a Computer Annalyst in PhilMech (Philippine Post Harvest Development and Mechanization). He wears a shade of green every Monday and blue every Thursday. A shade of blood tints his outfits every Wednesdays. But it is never much to say that he lives in such mechanical life.
Because he has a family.
A teacher came to be his life partner. She is the woman that brought oxygen to his life for him to convert it in carbon dioxide. She is the woman that is more than his wife. She is the woman he fell in love with.
A girl was born and it was his princess. He taught her the world beyond the fences. He let her see the two sides of everything: fiction and reality. It wasn’t his another wife, it was his another lady..his daughter, his first ever child.
A boy became his ultimate rivalry, to toys he once used to play with. It was his son, his second child. He let him hold the ends of paint brushes. He never locked him in a box tainted with reality. He exposed him with the light of art-He had witnessed the bliss that conquered his son’s eyes.
Because he is more than just a painter.. he is also a husband and a father. He is more than the usual but never too much in the odd side.
Yes, he is extraordinary.
An artwork of his entitled: “Lukso Ng Dugo” screams a lot of viewpoints. There’s this synonyms and antonyms invisibly etched upon every blood stroke; a pleasant deafening sound in the most silent artistic way.
Yes, a flood of words in just an artwork. He made it possible.
It is as if his reflection refracts in a perfect profoundness. With the every leaping of fingers and shoulders, he manages to paint it and deliver such language of passion and philosophy. It is as if, every edge mounts to every preposition and dangling participle and with every blood drawn on the canvas, he manages to sew it together with clinching words driven into an inclusion of his medium.
It is as if this flood of words through his artworks will let your mouth run dry; your tongue will impossibly string words into a sentence anymore. He’ll leave your mouth drained. He will leave you with a speechless state and it would be the most beautiful struggle for you.
Actions speak louder than voice, but what if voice became your inner sound? No matter how much symmetry of words you’ve sewed into sentences, or intricate manners of actions you’ve acted, there’s nothing that can surpass the beauty of language when it’s in your head. It’s the voice you’ll find to be the most silent yet disturbing sound ever. It is in his artworks where you can hear it; his paintings define better than a dictionary. It has no limits of understanding, but it speaks−for love, for courage, for freedom.
I speak, not for the art, not for the appreciation of beauty−inside and out. I speak not for the world to know him as a blood and hair artist, not for the youth to be inspired with the concept of love and passion. I speak for people to know how an ordinary man drowns himself with fiction but manages to go back and breathe. Because in life, in order for you to live..you need two worlds: the existent and the non-existent. It is always in equilibrium.
I also speak, because I’m a proud daughter; that for once, my father was able to balance everything out. And it’s always the biggest thing. My father didn’t let fiction swallow him whole - he had his torso bitten by reality and the other part, by superficiality. Albert Einstein had once said: “Imagination is the highest form of intelligence.”, it may be but make sure you’ll go back to the world you’ve lived in.
Yes, he is my father. He is the man I’ve asked suggestions about my art projects. He is the artist of my life. He is more than ones I’ve known in my Art class.
Yes, he is my father. I am a part of his. Our blood is thicker than the thickest cornstarch mixture. He is my father.
He is Elito Villaflor Circa. He is our one and only: “Amangpintor”.