Blog 1

Before I ever held a paintbrush, I held books — heavy, symbolic, moral books that shaped the way I think and feel. From Rizal to Homer, from Poe to Milton, I was taught to read deeply, to interpret, to search for meaning. I didn’t know it then, but those lessons would become the quiet architecture of my art.

Between paintings, there is always a pause — a quiet space where hesitation and possibility meet. I linger before every new canvas, feeling the weight of the first stroke long before it touches the surface. This waiting is part of the work. This stillness is where the next painting begins

I’ve always turned small moments into stories. Even now, a fallen flower on a footpath can open a whole world in me — and sometimes, that world becomes a painting. MARAHUYO is one of those moments, born from noticing, remembering, and being quietly enchanted by life.

Salamisim began not with an image, but with a word that lingered. This entry traces the quiet unfolding of a fragmented painting series shaped by reflection, poetry, and the moments that return until they find a place on the canvas.

A return to the quiet discipline of morning: carving space for art, honouring my time, and remembering the fearless child who always followed her curiosity.

My eyes have shaped my process since childhood — seeing only what’s close, nearly blind at night. Between 3 and 5 a.m., when the world is quiet, ideas arrive briefly, and I follow them before they fade.

My creative practice is shaped by the things that stayed with me — the small objects, memories, and inner truths that travelled through every version of my life. This reflection explores how meaning, not possessions, anchors the way I create.

Art is where I speak the truths I cannot say out loud — a space shaped by love, duty, and clarity.

A black‑and‑white photo became the quiet starting point for Wired Dayz — a moment of noticing before the making, where immersion, contemplation, and silence shape what comes next.

A quiet reflection on the way a home shifts after loved ones leave — how their presence lingers in the air, in the work, and in the body long after the house settles again.

A meditation on patience, slow attention, and the quiet rhythms of working in oil — where clarity arrives in layers, in its own time.

On feeling misunderstood, staying curious, and letting the space between intention and response become a quiet conversation.

A reflection on why removing, simplifying, and stripping back — in life and in painting — brings me closer to what feels true.