Perhaps the sadness that I felt with the recent passing of Pope John Paul II filled me with the grace to write this piece about matters concerning art, religion and expediency, because what I am about to let on ultimately revolves around the question of values and, indeed, what we hold sacred.
I could sense that something was gravely amiss when I received an invitation to the show Pasyon: Seven Paintings by National Artist Carlos V. Francisco from his "Way of the Cross" series at the CCP’s Bulwagang Fernando Amorsolo. "Seven?" I asked. "What ever happened to the rest of the paintings?"
The Grand Inquisitor in me decided to check things out.
The exhibition (which closed last April 10) featured Stations 8 to 14 from the complete set commissioned from the master muralist by Salesian priest Fr. Pierangelo Quaranta in 1960, which used to hang together with a monumental Crucifixion scene inside the Don Bosco Chapel in Mandaluyong.
Visiting the nearby Visual Arts Division, also on the CCP’s fourth floor, I was shocked to have been informed by a member of the office staff that the paintings on display were being sold by the Salesian Fathers for a substantial amount to raise funds for their various projects for poor and underprivileged youth. A higher price tag was also given for the Crucifixion altarpiece, which was not included in the show.
Subsequent phone calls to a certain Myrna and to Fr. Revilla of Don Bosco Technical Institute revealed that Stations 1 to 7 had already been disposed off years ago – a fact that was confirmed by printed materials that the CCP gave me which stated that the paintings had been sold sometime in the mid-‘80s. I also learned that Stations 3 and 5 were, interestingly enough, already in the collection of the Government Service Insurance System (GSIS), leaving Stations 1, 2, 4, 6, and 7 in the hands of private individuals, none of who any of the people that I spoke to could identify.
In my desire to get to the bottom of what had happened to the "Way of the Cross," I decided to turn to a Church insider, my assistant, Joel de Leon, who used to be a seminarian of the Dominican order. Joel spoke to an anonymous source: A priest who claims to have been privy to what transpired during the sale of the first batch of paintings. The source intimated to Joel – all of this is unconfirmed, of course – that the buyer, who voiced the intention of presenting the paintings as a gift to the Imeldific one, opted to purchase the first seven Stations by giving a down payment, since his available funds were insufficient at the time to acquire the entire lot. After some time, the buyer returned and tried to purchase the rest of the paintings, but was instead informed by the Salesians that they were no longer interested in selling, having belatedly realized their worth and art historical importance.
Now, I am not here to preside over an auto-da-fé of the Salesian community. Indeed, they deserve the highest praise for the purity and goodness of their intention to utilize whatever assets they have at their disposal to tend to their ministry.
What distresses me, however, is seeing this rather cavalier exercise of the virtue of charity. Please correct me if I am wrong, but my understanding of caritas is that it involves not only physical, but also spiritual succor. Would it not, therefore, be considered uncharitable to destroy the essence of a religious artwork that is meant to be experienced in toto? Forgive me for saying this, but I am greatly disappointed that this piecemeal sell-off received a nihil obstat.
For all that has been said about Botong’s "unerring eye for composition," and his "artistic style characterized by rich tropical colors, florid lines, and orchestrated placement of multiple figures evident in each station," the fact of the matter is that the "Way of the Cross" is not a series of works that can rightfully, individually stand alone: It is, in keeping with the tenets of the Council of Trent and Baroque religiosity, an aid to the practice of Catholicism, a visual companion to the journey of reflection of the faithful as they make their way with Christ to Calvary.
With all due respect, I also consider it somewhat of a betrayal to the spirit of the Via Crucis that this work has been broken up in the face of material need, when the right thing to do would be to honor the artist’s vision, hold fast, stay the course of truth and not buckle to the temptation of heathens who, dangling cash, would countenance shattering the cohesive unity of this master work just to have a piece of Botong.
Ultimately, doesn’t this "art sin" repudiate the message of fidelity and loving commitment, which underlies the narrative of the Passion and Death of Christ Himself?
Although there is no use dwelling on past events, and on what has already been wrought – Consummatum est, indeed – I cannot put this matter to rest without insisting that the most proper way to deal with what had transpired years ago would have been to wait until the right public or private collector who could afford to acquire all 14 paintings came along. Without compromising the integrity of the work, issues about fair price could have been settled by negotiation between buyer and seller.
Still, I am convinced that all is not lost. If I may be so bold, I would like to suggest that the GSIS consider buying Stations 8 to 14 from the Salesians. Afterwards, they could track down the owners of the other canvases, and make them an offer they cannot refuse.
The populace needn’t even worry about where the funds for this mega-purchase will come from. Inspired by the Holy Spirit to repent for the P 45.4 million "art sin" that it committed in October 2002, I am certain that the GSIS will decide to sell Juan Luna’s Parisian Life, realizing that it would be doing the Filipino nation an even greater service by sacrificing this piddling work, with the intention of reuniting Botong’s oeuvre in all its holy splendor.
I consider nothing to be impossible; and in such matters of faith, hope certainly does spring eternal.