GINAW BILOG

Poet
Hanunuo Mangyan
Panaytayan, Oriental Mindoro
1993

A common cultural aspect among cultural communities nationwide is the oral tradition
characterized by poetic verses which are either sung or chanted. However, what
distinguishes the rich Mangyan literary tradition from others is the ambahan, a poetic
literary form composed of seven-syllable lines used to convey messages through
metaphors and images. The ambahan is sung and its messages range from courtship,
giving advice to the young, asking for a place to stay, saying goodbye to a dear friend
and so on. Such an oral tradition is commonplace among indigenous cultural groups but
the ambahan has remained in existence today chiefly because it is etched on bamboo
tubes using ancient Southeast Asian, pre-colonial script called surat Mangyan.Ginaw
Bilog, Hanunoo Mangyan from Mansalay, Mindoro, grew up in such a cultural
environment. Already steeped in the wisdom that the ambahan is a key to the
understanding of the Mangyan soul, Ginaw took it upon himself to continually keep
scores of ambahan poetry recorded, not only on bamboo tubes but on old, dog-eared
notebooks passed on to him by friends.Most treasured of his collection are those
inherited from his father and grandfather, sources of inspiration and guidance for his
creative endeavors. To this day, Ginaw shares old and new ambahans with his fellow
Mangyans and promotes this poetic form in every occasion.Through the dedication of
individuals like Ginaw, the ambahan poetry and other traditional art forms from our
indigenous peoples will continue to live.The Filipinos are grateful to the Hanunoo
Mangyan for having preserved a distinctive heritage form our ancient civilization that
colonial rule had nearly succeeded in destroying. The nation is justifiably proud of
Ginaw Bilog for vigorously promoting the elegantly poetic art of the surat Mangyan and
the ambahan.
 LANG DULAY
Textile Weaver
Tboli
Lake Sebu, South Cotabato
1998

Using abaca fibers as fine as hair, Lang Dulay speaks more eloquently than words can.
Images from the distant past of her people, the Tbolis, are recreated by her nimble
hands the crocodiles, butterflies and flowers, along with mountains and streams, of
Lake Sebu, South Cotabato, where she and her ancestors were born fill the fabric with
their longing to be remembered. Through her weaving, Lang Dulay does what she can
to keep her peoples tradition alive.There are a few of them left, the traditional weavers
of the tnalak or Tboli cloth. It is not hard to see why: weaving tnalak is a tedious process
that begins with stripping the stem of the abaca plant to get the fibers, to coaxing even
finer fibers for the textile, then drying the threads and tying each strand by hand.
Afterwards, there is the delicate task of setting the strands on the bed-tying frame
made of bamboo, with an eye towards deciding which strands should be tied to resist
the dye. It is the bud or tying of the abaca fibers that defines the design. A roll of tnalak
must be individually set on a back strap loom, so called because of the broad band the
weaver sets against her back to provide tension to the work. There is great strain on the
weavers back and eyes, particularly since Tboli women are required to help out in the
fields to augment the family income. It is only after the farm work is done that the
weaver can sit down to her designs. Also, due to the peculiarity of the fiber, of its getting
brittle under the noon day sun, working on it is preferred during the cool evenings or
early morn.Lang Dulay knows a hundred designs, including the bulinglangit (clouds), the
bankiring (hair bangs), and the kabangi (butterfly), each one special for the stories it
tells. Usingred and black dyes, she spins her stories with grace. Her textiles reflect the
wisdom and the visions of her people.Before the 1960s, the Tboli bartered tnalak for
horses, which played an important role in their work. Upon the establishment of the St.
Cruz Mission, which encouraged the community to weave and provided them with a
means to market their produce, the tnalak designs gained widespread popularity and
enable weavers like Lang to earn a steady income from their art. However, the demand
also resulted in the commercialization of the tnalak industry, with outsiders coming in to
impose their own designs on the tboli weavers.Ironically modern designs get a better
price than the traditional ones. Despite this, and the fact that those modern designs are
easier to weave, Lang persists in doing things the old, if harder, way, to give voice, in
effect, to the songs that were her elders before her. Her textiles are judged excellent
because of the fine even quality of the yarn, the close interweaving of the warp and
weft, the precision in the forms and patterns, the chromatic integrity of the dye, and the
consistency of the finish.She was only 12 when she first learned how to weave.
Through the years, she has dreamed that, someday she could pass on her talent and
skills to the young in her community. Four of her grandchildren have themselves picked
up the shuttle and are learning to weave.With the art comes certain taboos that Tboli
weavers are careful to observe, such as passing a single abaca thread all over the body
before weaving so as not to get sick. Lang Dulay never washes the tnalak with soap,
and avoids using soap when she is dyeing the threads in order to maintain the pureness
of the abaca.Upon learning that she was being considered to be one of the Gawad sa
Manlilikha ng Bayan awardees, tears of joy fell from her eyes. She thought of the school
that she wanted to build, a school where the women of her community could go to
perfect their art.
 MASINO INTARAY (+ 2013)
Musician and Storyteller
Palawan
Brookes Point, Palawan
1993

Living in the highlands of southern Palawan are the Palawan people, who, together with
the Batak and Tagbanwa, are the major indigenous cultural communities of Palawan.

The Palawan possess a rich, intense yet highly refined culture encompassing both the
visible and invisible worlds. They may not exhibit the ornate splendor of the Maranaw
nor the striking elegance of the Yakan, but their elaborate conemology, extensive poetic
and literary traditions, multi-level architecture, musical concepts, social ethic and rituals
reveal a deeply spiritual sensibility and subtle inner life of a people attuned to the myriad
energies and forms of luxurious mountain universe that is their abode, a forest
environment of great trees, countless species of plants and animals, and a magnificent
firmament.

The Palawan have no notion of property. To them, the earth, sea, sky and natures
elements belong to no one. Their basic social ethic is one sharing. Their most important
rituals such as the tambilaw and the tinapay are forms of vast and lavish sharing,
particularly of food and drinks, skills and ideas.

The tambilaw is a collective cooking and sharing of rice which is a ritual offering to the
Lord of Rice, Ampot Paray, while the tinapay is the rice wine drinking ceremony. It is
during such occasions that the basal, or gong music ensemble, plays a vital role in the
life of the community. For it is the music of the basal that collectively and spiritually
connects the Palawan with the Great Lord, Ampo and the Master Rice, Ampot Paray.
The basal enlivens the night long fast of the drinking of the rice wine, bringing together
about one hundred guests under the roof of the kolon banwa (big house).

The gimbal (tubular drum) begins the music with a basic rhythm, then enter the sanang
( pair of small gongs with boss and narrow rims) and one to three agungs (gongs with
high bossed and wide turned in rims).

Basal ensemble playing is an accurate and wonderful metaphor for the basic custom of
sharing among the Palawan . For in this music no one instrument predominates. The
techniques of interlocking, counterpoint, alternation and colotomy ensure a collective
oneness. The two sanang play in alternative dynamics. When one plays loudly, the
other plays softly. Contrapuntal patterns govern the interaction of the agung with the
sanang and gimbal. It is the music of punctuation, rhythm and color rather than
melody. Its very essence is creative cooperation and togetherness.

A non-musical instrumental element of the basal are the young womens rapid stamping
rhythm of their foot as they move back and forth on the bamboo slatted floor of the
kolon banwa, carrying taro leaves on both hands at their sides. This percussion dance
is called tarak.

Further highlighting the intensely poetic and subtle harmony of human beings with each
other and with nature among the palawan are the kulilal and bagit traditions. The kulilal
is a highly lyrical poem expressing passionate love sang with the accompaniment of the
kusyapi (two-stringed lute), played by a man, and pagang (bamboo zither), played by a
woman. The bagit, also played on the kusyapi, is strictly instrumental music depicting
the rhythms, movements and sounds of nature, birds, monkeys, snakes, chirping of
insects, rustling of leaves, the elements and the like.

An outstanding master of the basal, kulilal and bagit is Masino, a gifted poet, bard artist,
and musician who was born near the head of the river in Makagwa valley on the foothill
of Mantalingayan mountain. Masino is not only well-versed in the instruments and
traditions of the basal, kulilal and bagit but also plays the aroding (mouth harp) and
babarak (ring flute) and above all is a prolific and pre-eminent epic chanter and story
teller.

He has the creative memory, endurance, clarity of intellect and spiritual purpose that
enable him to chant all through the night, for successive nights, countless tultul (epics),
sudsungit (narratives), and tuturan (myths of origin and teachings of ancestors).Masino
and the basal and kulilal ensemble of Makagwa valley are creative, traditional artists of
the highest order of merit
 EDUARDO MUTUC
Metalsmith
Kapampangan
Apalit Pampanga
2004

Eduardo Mutuc is an artist who has dedicated his life to creating religious and secular
art in silver, bronze and wood. His intricately detailed retablos, mirrors, altars, and
carosas are in churches and private collections. A number of these works are quite
large, some exceeding forty feet, while some are very small and feature very fine and
delicate craftsmanship.

For an artist whose work graces cathedrals and churches, Mutuc works in humble
surroundings. His studio occupies a corner of his yard and shares space with a tailoring
shop. During the recent rains, the river beside his lot overflowed and water flooded his
studio in Apalit, Pampanga, drenching his woodblocks. Mutuc takes it all in stride.

He discovered his talents in sculpture and metalwork quite late. He was 29 when he
decided to supplement his income from farming for the relatively more secure job of
woodcarving. He spent his first year as an apprentice to carvers of household furniture.
It was difficult at the beginning, but thanks to his mentors, he was able to develop
valuable skills that would serve him in good stead later on. The hardest challenge for
him was learning a profession that he had no prior knowledge about, but poverty was a
powerful motivation. Although his daily wage of P3.00 didnt go far to support his wife
and the first three of nine children (one of whom has already died), choices were limited
for a man who only finished elementary school.

Things began to change after his fifth or sixth year as a furniture maker, when a
colleague taught him the art of silver plating. This technique is often used to emulate
gold and silver leaf in the decoration of saints and religious screens found in colonial
churches. He left the furniture shop and struck out on his own with another friend. One
of his first commissions came from Monsignor Fidelis Limcauco, who asked him to
create a tabernacle for the parish of Fairview , Quezon City . Clients began to
commission him to create other pieces, many of which are based on Spanish colonial
designs. Peak seasons are before Holy Week and Christmas. He derives inspiration
from traditional religious designs and infuses his own ideas into the finished product.

While he finds meaning in making pieces for the church, orders for commissioned
pieces have become fewer because of the economic slump. But even for his secular
pieces, he finds inspiration in church art.

When he is working on metalwork, he begins with a detailed drawing. He then transfers

the design on a block of wood by chiseling out the details. He then covers the wood with
a metal sheet, and then coaxes out the design through careful hammering with a mallet
and an old rubber slipper. Afterwards, he dips the solid metal sheet in molten silver, a
dangerous task that must be done in the open air lest the poisonous fumes overcome
him. He then proceeds to do more hammering and polishing to bring out the details of
the piece.

Each piece has its own demands. Many times the size of the subject demands larger
and more expansive designs to make a statement from afar. Other times it may best be
expressed through careful detailing that needs close observation before it becomes
evident. Mistakes are costly, as brass and silver are expensive. While small tears or
mistakes in cutting out the design could be easily remedied, an error in measurement or
carving might require him to do it over. He acknowledges that he makes fewer mistakes
now that he has become more expert in his craft.

Mutucs works are more than merely decorative. They add character and splendor to
their setting. His spectacular shiny retablos that decorate an apse or chapel provide
focus for contemplation and devotion while the faithful commune with the Divine in
regular church celebrations.

He notes that handmade pieces are finer and more delicate than machine pressed
pieces, particularly when commissioned pieces involve human representations. Facial
expressions are among the hardest to do, says Mutuc who uses different molds for
each cherub to ensure their individuality. His cherubin are engaging creatures, whose
strikingly lifelike quality comes through the silverplate. They look out at the worshippers
with a concerned, kindly air, seemingly on the alert to guide their prayers upward.

According to him, craftsmanship begins with respect for ones tools and the medium.
The first thing he teaches his students is how to hold the chisel and hammer properly to
promote ease of use and prevent fatigue and mistakes because of improper handling.
He also cautions against working with an eye towards easy money. The only way to
improve ones skills, he says, is to immerse oneself, learn the technique, and to
practice. Only in perfecting ones craft can there be real reward
 SALINTA MONON (+ 2009)
Textile Weaver
Tagabawa Bagobo
Bansalan, Davao del Sur
1998

Practically, since she was born, Salinta Monon had watched her mothers nimble hands
glide over the loom, weaving traditional Bagobo textiles. At 12 she presented herself to
her mother, to be taught how to weave herself. Her ardent desire to excel in the art of
her ancestors enabled her to learn quickly. She developed a keen eye for the traditional
designs, and now, at the age of 65, she can identify the design as well as the author of
a woven piece just by a glance.

All her life she has woven continuously, through her marriage and six pregnancies, and
even after her husbands death 20 years ago. She and her sister are the only remaining
Bagobo weavers in her community.

Her husband paid her parents a higher bride price because of her weaving skills.
However, he left all the abaca gathering and stripping to her. Instead, he concentrated
on making their small farm holding productive. Life was such that she was obliged to
help out in the farm, often putting her own work aside to make sure the planting got
done and the harvest were brought in. When her husband died, she was left alone with
a farm and six children, but she continued with her weaving, as a source of income as
well as pride.

Salinta has built a solid reputation for the quality of her work and the intricacies of her
designs. There is a continuing demand for her fabrics. She has reached the stage
where she is able to set her own price, but she admits to a nagging sense of being
underpaid nevertheless, considering the time she puts into her work. It takes her three
to four months to finish a fabric 3.5 m x 42 cm in length, or one abaca tube skirt per
month.

She used to wear the traditional hand-woven tube skirt of the Bagobo, of which the
sinukla and the bandira were two of the most common types until the market began to
be flooded with cheap machine-made fabrics. Now, she wears her traditional clothes
only on speacial occasions. Of the many designs she weaves, her favorite is the
binuwaya (crocodile), which is one of the hardest to make.

Today, she has her son to strip the abaca fibers for her. Abaca was once plentiful in
their area, but an unexpected scourge has devastated the wild abaca crops. Now, they
are starting to domesticate their own plants to keep up with the steady demand for the
fabric.

When she has work to finish, Salinta isolates herself from her family to ensure privacy
and concentration in her art. At the moment, she does her weaving in her own home,
but she wants nothing better than to build a structure just for weaving, a place
exclusively for the use of weavers. She looks forward to teaching young wives in her
community the art of weaving, for, despite the increasing pressures of modern society,
Bagobo women are still interested in learning the art.

Few women in the 1990s have the inclination, patience or perseverance to undergo the
strict training and discipline to become a weaver. Salinta maintains a pragmatic attitude
towards the fact that she and her younger sister may be the only Bagobo weavers left,
the last links to a colorful tradition among their ancestors that had endured throughout
the Spanish and American colonization periods, and survived with a certain vigor up to
the late 1950s