I couldn’t say no when my old friend in theater and now VP-artistic director of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, “Tata” Nanding Josef, invited me to the CCP for a “Sining Taktakan” symposium devoted to the issue of improving the welfare of artists in this country. I joined a group of artists and policymakers that included singer Grace Nono, actor Ronnie Lazaro, playwright Nick Pichay, CCP president Nes Jardin, and Representative Del de Guzman, chair of the congressional committee on basic education and arts and culture. Among the reactors were radio talents Eloisa Cruz-Canlas a.k.a. “Lola Sela Bungangera” on DZRH-AM and Constancio “Ka Cade” Cadelina, who shared their colorful experiences.
All of us knew or had heard of woeful cases of artists — writers, actors, painters, musicians, entertainers — who were leading lives of abject privation, ravaged by poverty, disease, and neglect. These were people who had offered the best of their talents to the nation and the world, delighting us with wonderful objects and memorable performances. But because of the nature of their work — and, also, because of the lack of information and legal protection — they ended up being left behind, owning little or nothing, depending on the charity of others.
Artists seem especially susceptible to mismanagement — either by themselves, or by others. Caught in the heady whirl of their art and all too ready to sacrifice their well-being, they are easily exploited. I remember when, starting out as a screenwriter back in the late ’70s and eager to break into the industry, I got gypped out of my pitifully small paycheck — not once, but twice, and by well-known people in the industry, at that. (Lino Brocka, bless his soul, fought tooth and nail for his co-workers to get their due.) Many artists never see a contract, or are forced to sign lopsided ones. There may be laws already in place to protect, say, copyrights, but artists don’t know about them. Unless they have day jobs as journalists, teachers, and the like, many artists will go through life without any kind of social security or retirement benefit. One catastrophic illness is often all it takes to wipe out whatever an artist has saved; whole libraries and collections are sold, families suffer, and artists die wondering if it was all worth it, to have created so much beauty for so much pain.
To meet these needs, a group of artists led by Nick Pichay (the newest Palanca Hall of Famer, who also happens to be a lawyer) bonded together to form the Artists Welfare Project, which was publicly announced during the symposium. Congressman De Guzman — whom I had a chance to be with a couple of years ago in a private, multisectoral initiative for political reform with Senator Kiko Pangilinan — admitted that he was new to the cultural sector, but pledged to apply his familiarity with legislative procedures to the promotion of artists’ welfare, possibly through the enactment of a Magna Carta for Artists. Nes Jardin (who — few people know — graduated from the Philippines Science High School before becoming a dancer) gave an impressive presentation during which it was revealed that so-called “creative industries” accounted for $1.6 billion of goods and services around the world in 2005 (and, just in the Philippines, contributed to about 9 percent of GDP that year; the estimate had to be made independently, because our system of national accounts doesn’t factor in “creative industries” such as entertainment and cartoon animation). In other words, artists and their work are a vital economic force and resource as well.
I’m sure — and thankful — that the support of an enlightened politician like Del de Guzman can do much for the cause. But I also made the point in my brief presentation that government support for artists should, as much as possible, be depoliticized, as artists are so often and so easily turned into the courtiers and lapdogs of the powers-that-be. As someone who’s had to seek out all kinds of writing jobs to support his family — from speeches to Viva and Regal scripts and annual reports — I completely understand the need for compromise, and have little problem adjusting to the specific demands of a client. But however we may rationalize things, and however strongly I believe that artists cannot be exempt (but can rather benefit) from sustained doses of reality, a compromised artist is in some ways a diminished one, and that’s just something I’m going to have to live with.
The world may not owe artists a living; but they do have a right as much as anyone else to a decent and dignified livelihood, and to expect some measure of security in their old age in return for their economic and social contributions, and for what they do to excite our imaginations, exercise our consciences, and remind us of the things truly worth living for.
* * *
You know you’ve reached a point in your writing life — somewhere just beyond the sunny hilltop — when people start asking you for blurbs for the back of their book. It’s a favor I don’t mind doing, for as long as I can find the time, and subject to two conditions: (1) I have to know and like the work and its author; and (2) sorry, but you have to ask me nicely.
I was reminded of this last week when I received a message in my inbox from a young writer — let’s call him Jason — asking me to write a blurb for his short story collection, which he was about to submit to two leading presses for consideration. The letter read: “Dear Butch Dalisay:
“Could you write a one-paragraph comment on my short story collection, like those comments by established writers printed on the back cover of another writer’s book? What do you call that? I plan to submit my short story collection either to MMM Publishing or the WWW Press. Attached with this e-mail is my short story collection. Thank you. Sincerely, J.”
I was, to put it mildly, not thrilled. I appreciated the “thank you” and the “sincerely,” but the body of the message was about as graceful as the Titanic making the acquaintance of an iceberg. Never mind the breezy familiarity of “Butch Dalisay”; for all I knew, the person was the gentlest of Quakers (who go through life without the baggage of “Mr.,” “Mrs.,” “Dr.” and such). It was, rather, the implied assumption that I sit around waiting for unsolicited manuscripts to fall on my lap, to be read in a trice and lauded in one purple paragraph. As it happened, I was having one of those weeks from hell, with two book drafts needing to be finished at the same time, a clutch of columns and features to conjure, four classes to teach, and a raft of iPhone newbies just begging for moderation on the PhilMUG forums.
But rather than temper Jason’s youthful exuberance with a meat cleaver, I took a deep breath, held my tongue, and wrote him back in the most Quaker-like mien I could manage under the circumstances: “Dear Jason,” I said, “Let me tell you how these things are usually done. First, you send your manuscript to the publisher. Upon acceptance, the publisher may then ask other authors or critics to provide blurbs — that’s what they’re called — presuming they like the material, and have the time and the inclination to grant the request. Sincerely, Butch Dalisay.”
I hope that response placated Jason, for the time being — but somehow I doubt it. He has, in fact, been corresponding with me for several years now, asking to be read and critiqued, but like I find myself having to occasionally remind my readers, I simply don’t have the time and the energy to perform this service, nor to provide individual or personalized workshops. If you want to study with me, you’ll have to enroll in UP — I’ll be teaching a graduate course in creative nonfiction next semester — or get yourself into the Baguio workshop. Otherwise, you could read my book, The Knowing Is in the Writing: Notes on the Practice of Fiction (UP Press, 2006). But to acknowledge Jason for his remarkable patience, I might — just might — send him a personal message one of these days to give him a frank assessment of his writing. That will be between him and me.
To tell you the truth, I dislike playing judge, jury, and executioner with other people’s work. I can’t avoid it as a teacher and as an editor, but I’d much rather be writing my own stories — whatever they may be worth — than reading tea leaves in the words of others. All it often does — except for my best students, who get the toughest of my comments — is land me in trouble.
Some readers, for example, have tried catching my attention and approbation and, failing that, have begun screaming in my face. A rather persistent one (let’s call him Robin Regalo, for his own protection) started writing me six years ago — pleasantly at first, then more and more shrilly as time went on for reasons only he knows. Exactly two years ago, fed up with his harangues and crying need for some attention, I gave him a bit of it in this column (“Minding Your Manners,” Oct. 17, 2005), unleashing even more anguish from this tortured soul.
In his more plaintive moments, Robin did hint at the source of his discontent. On Aug. 26, 2002, he wrote me to say that “I think more important for Filipino writers is to get beyond writing for the Palanca. Unfortunately for me, most of my work is not Palancable — there is such a thing. Something to do with sex, sex, sex, and this age’s ‘dynamic morality’ — yes, there is such a thing. I end up writing one month in a year solely for the Palancas. (My main work goes to the New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly’s trash bin.) It also looks like I didn’t win again this year, and, honestly, this confounds me…. All the winners in last year’s short story in English are awful.”
Last week, I found a fresh comment on my blog that sounded a lot like Robin, taking a stab at sarcasm, in the wake of my giddily self-serving news that my new novel had been long-listed for the Man Asian Literary Prize: “Hope you win. You’ve already humiliated yourself and maybe all Filipino writers by hustling to finish a novel in seven days just to qualify for a contest. This may be excusable for a young struggling writer, but not for a prominent old hand. This is also a great excuse: ‘I’m frankly not too hopeful of making it to the shortlist of five authors who’ll be flying to Hong Kong in November — I can imagine what the competition will be like from India and China, with all those novels to be written about silicon Shivas and waking dragons...’ It’s great that you’ve actually put our country and the Filipino experience well behind other countries. Congrats. I am amazed how principled and dedicated you are as a literary writer…. Oh, don’t bother erasing this one. I’ve forwarded copies to people.”
Dear me, whatever would I erase such a telling comment for? Lighten up, Robin, and write a book, instead of all these bilious missives (and yes, as you can see, I haven’t erased them from my cache at all — so mind what you write me, folks!).
Talk about what artists have to suffer — and not from the government, either. Might it be that hell hath no fury like a writer scorned?
* * *
E-mail me at penmanila@yahoo.com and visit my blog at http://www.penmanila.net.