A painting of the petrified Sandara hangs in the sala on the condominium unit sprinkler, these things have their use even without a fire. Above the old reliable TV set on which sits a souvenir teacup from a boutique hotel in Singapore, many miles closer to the equator. When we watch TV the painting watches us in turn, the watcher watching the watchers.
During boresome traffic sequences there is a tune that runs in my head: Sandara Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down, someone left the cake out in the rain, and I don’t think I can make it because it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never find that recipe again, oh no! Never fails, because before you know it, you’ve arrived at the destination, thanks to Sandara.
There’s another painting given by a dear friend, which we’ve christened "Camachile Man." Of a man or is it the bones of a man, and a skull somehow squeezed in either grinning or shouting, though the white paint on predominantly blue background gives the impression of a frenetic camachile. It used to sit above a bookshelf that had to be moved to give way to a larger Peranakan-type bookshelf, yes the type where the Chinese burn incense in front of huge pictures of their ancestors, only here there are mostly books and jars, and the inevitable picture of our parents.
The Camachile Man, alas, is on loan to a friend who owns a specialty restaurant in Montalban, which serves pinapaitan, dakdakan and other obscure dishes sure to go well with the view of the painting. The friend helped us haul the Peranakan cabinet several blocks from the place of its original owner, including carrying it up to the sixth floor by way of the narrow staircase, the antique like most antiques wouldn’t fit into the elevator. The trade was thus, Peranakan for Camachile, and Sandara giggling somewhere, hehehoha, her appetite lost for bayawak and pagi.
The Peranakan cabinet surely has its own story, groaning up the six flights of stairs, suffering assorted cuts and bruises after being bumped on railings and low stairwell ceiling, before finally becoming the repository of valuable and rare books collected over years of sitting in the national book awards. As of this writing maybe a cat now sits in one of its hard narra corners, smelling the cat smells of its former owner.
Then there are two smaller paintings, each of lambent women. One by Dalena, the other by Meps Endaya. They sit atop the old bookshelf where the Camachile Man used to hold fort. Dalena’s is entitled "Catnap" from the "Alibangbang" series, of an a-go-go dancer taking a quick rest possibly between gyrating sets, by lying down on three chairs placed side by side. Feet rest on the floor. One arm covering the face or eyes.
We don’t know the title of the Meps painting, but it is like a pen and ink on white paper, of the back view of a nude woman holding what could be a large towel with which she is about to wrap herself in. Buttocks tight and well delineated, the towel having the semblance of a shawl, door in the distance, a sensuous movement frozen in time.
Atop the very rarely played piano, meanwhile, is a pair of artworks – a Baldemor given to us after we interviewed him some years ago, titled "Bukang Liwayway" that resembles a stained glass dawn in the open country. It’s a bright work, a healthy counterpoint to the perpetually melting Sandara. When dawn arrives in the country, it is as if the piano is already playing by itself, by its not so lonesome self.
Beside Baldemor is another depressing lyrical one, that of a melancholy Madonna and child. It was given by painter Celine Gamalinda Borromeo during my father’s wake four years ago. It is actually more of a watercolor with woodcut appearance that befitted the occasion of mourning, and on the piano now it is like morning becomes Electra.
There are also two portraits lying somewhere around the house, one again by Dalena and done on Nick Joaquin’s last night on earth, during a drinking binge at riverside Vergara in Mandaluyong. Of course we did not know it then and Nick was not with us, and Dalena was doing impromptu portraits of every tippler in attendance. The other was done by an unnamed artist whose name we forgot to note, done at Penguin Cafe and Gallery in Malate and with writer Totel de Jesus present. It is kept safe in a folder in one of the bookshelves, we are not sure which exactly, and whether the bookshelf is in or out – Sandara singing there.