Dream house by a National Artist - 1959

The last two articles on dream homes, first the Laurel home and then the demesne of the Marquez-Lim family, have drawn a lot of interest from readers. A lot of people relate to the architecture and lifestyles of the 1950s and ’60s when they were growing up. They may also, as with a number of readers who wrote in, have grown up in these houses in the ’70s and ’80s. We continue this week with the residence of prominent businessman Jaime Zobel de Ayala, by then promising architect who eventually became a National Artist for Architecture Leandro V. Locsin.

The National Artist Awards (or the death of it) has been in the headlines the past week. This is due to the questionable process (or the abandonment of it) in the “selection” of the last batch of awardees. It is regrettable that the conferment of this highest of honors for artistic achievement, to those deserving of the award, has been tainted by the presidential act of inclusion of others who have not gone through the gauntlet of the mandated three-level peer review. A number of the awardees were not even short-listed as nominees from the start. More cirque-some … I mean irksome ... is the fact that one nominee, who was selected by his peers, got inexplicably stricken out of the list.

Of course, the process is not flawless, but it is better than the lack of any. It is also better than choosing awardees based on political or popular criteria. National Artists are those who have produced a critically acclaimed body of creative work, not chopped-up, esthetically-massacred products made to draw people to the box office, or drawings of questionable authorship. The National Artist Award is not given either for cumulative acts of founding artistic groups, the setting up of foundations or the administration of institutions. There are other more suitable awards for those with these undeniable accomplishments. But a National Artist Award? — delicadecidedly not!

Having said this, I am surprised that no nominee for architecture came through the screening process. This may be due to the lack of documentation of the artistic work of our 30,000 or so architects and allied designers in landscape architecture, interior design, and planning. Francisco Mañosa’s Filipino architecture is acclaimed both here and abroad. His art is tempered by a keen understanding of culture, native materials, and creative use of space. That he slipped through the initial cracks of the selection process may have something to do with this dearth of literature on modern Filipino architecture as well as the inclusion of fashion design (not that I have anything against fashion and the ornamental arts) as a sub-category, which was placed under architecture and the allied arts; an incongruity, whose history escapes me at the moment.

But I have digressed long enough.

Looking at past accomplishments in architecture and allied design fields is what this column, in part, seeks to do. Leandro Locsin’s work, like Mañosa’s, is as readily identifiable, has a gravitas because of consistency and aesthetic depth, and generates palpable emotional response in the experience of seeing and moving through it.

One of his early residential projects is a sprawling bungalow in Forbes Park for Jaime Zobel de Ayala and his young family. The work is one of those few houses that in fact have been documented twice. It was featured in Philippine Arts and Architecture in 1960 and again in Locsin’s coffee table book by Nicolas Polites printed in 1975.

The magazine article had minimal copy to accompany the several black and white pictures of the then new house. Only one color picture was included, that of a view of a private lanai showing a deep overhang reminiscent of the cantilevered sun shade that Frank Lloyd Wright designed for his famous Falling Water house. Both Frank and Lindy were fond of and influenced by Japanese architecture. Polites book states that the Zobel house was designed right after Locsin’s first trip to Japan. The author describes the design: “In subtle ways … represents a blending of Japanese, Philippine, and Western building traditions.”

The plan of the house is open and configured around an inner courtyard and a spine-like corridor. The front portal brings visitors into the courtyard, which is landscaped in minimalist hybrid Japanese style with a pond. A bridgeway over the water takes one through a sliding front door and the main corridor.

The living room and dining rooms flow into each other and are separated by a change in level. Sunken living rooms were fashionable in that era, but Locsin tweaked this by continuing the living room level straight out into the expansive lanai and garden.

Locsin also blurred the lines between the inside and the outside by using generous amounts of glass. Polites states that the architect made “outside walls seem almost non-existent … so that inside and outside intimately mingle. Inside walls are treated more like partitions that divide and define space than like barriers or structural supports.”

Loscin was so successful with the overall design of the house that Polites declares that it becomes almost invisible and adds, “Nothing that is part of the building calls attention to itself, and the architecture thus remains virtually anonymous, a quiet place for people and selected objets d’art. The owners have kept the space uncluttered, so that it retains a serene and timeless quality.”

The classic quality of the Zobel house design was proven when it was featured 15 years after its completion. Some of the interior décor changed, but the spaces did not. Locsin went on to design a few dozen other residences, but he is better known as the architect of iconic buildings like the Cultural Center of the Philippines and large commercial structures like hotels and convention centers. Many of the architects of his era did start in residential design and proceeded from there to larger projects.

Unfortunately, as I mentioned earlier in this piece, much of the last 50 years of modern Filipino architecture is undocumented and unappreciated. A danger, too, is that newer buildings and even residential architecture of the last decade are the products of foreign architects and designers. It sometimes feels like Filipino architects have disappeared.

How then can we, and the nation, acknowledge the contributions of pioneering men and women in architecture, and the continuing efforts of those who practice this art? The process of selection of those we elevate and recognize in this important field must be a conscious and deliberate one. It starts not with the CCP, the NCCA (National Commission for Culture and the Arts) and the council of peers (although this is where it should end) but with the schools and with media.

We must introduce the works of these great artists of space to our young students and budding designers. Many know Gehry, Liebskin or Hadid more than our Formoso, CC de Castro, Arguelles, Mendoza, Villarosa, Coscolluela, Mañosa, Recto, Recio, or Casas.

It starts with mass media, which should bring to the public’s attention the important function of architecture as an instrument of change in people’s lives. Many magazines now feature design but more substantial monographs and books on individual Filipino architects must be added to the measly three that have been printed over the last 50 years.

Finally, the process starts with the Filipino public and architectural clients, who must be introduced (or re-introduced) to the immense talent of the Filipino architect. This, so that he/she can be given a chance to do what they do best — create the structures, spaces, and settings we need to celebrate our Filipino dream: a decent, noble life free from the tyranny of want and the fear of those who wish to subvert our spirit for personal gain or glory.

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Feedback is welcome. Please e-mail the writer at paulo.alcazaren@.com.