Jose Mendoza: Artist incognito

"Let’s wait for my daughter Binky," requests Jose Mendoza as we danced around the uneasy air of a first-time meeting. Binky had been a sweet voice I talked to twice over landline connections and thrice over frantic cellular phone conversations to establish the how, when and where of the interview.

Is it too late to confess that in the rush to meet my deadline, I hardly thought about what my subject would look like? I imagined him the typical artist–eccentric in mind and fashion, possibly sure of himself and his art and definitely raring to talk about his latest exhibit at the Crucible Gallery.

That, of course, is a common mistake: never stereotype. And so, I found myself almost shaking my head in disbelief when a different Jose Mendoza walked pass sculptures of various sizes to, at last, shake my uncertain hand. He looked more like an unruthless businessman or a loving head of the family. His short-sleeved polo shirt was stark white over gray slacks that seemed out of place in his own art studio.

Apologetically ("Forgive the mess…"), he leads me up a short staircase (more precisely a cross between a staircase and a ladder) to his air-conditioned loft where we find ourselves awaiting the arrival of Binky.

I find no mess here. For some time, we stand around the small office figuring out where to sit. Eventually, I choose the sofa bed and ask him in my kindest voice (for he seemed quite ready to bolt like a scared bunny rabbit) if he could take the computer chair. His daughter finds us seated this way when she pops in through the horizontal door.

The presence of a third person–someone we both knew prior to that afternoon’s meeting–eases the tension considerably. Binky hands me seven un-numbered computer print-outs. "This was an article written by John Coronel for a book they’re doing about the project Who Owns Women’s Bodies. You might find it handy since it’s got complete information about my Dad. Actually, it was his first interview. You see, he has avoided doing interviews all these years," she explains.

As the veil is lifted from my eyes, Mr. Mendoza gives me a shy smile loaded with meaning. I crack a joke about how he is not alone in his phobia. No less than King of Philippine Movies, Fernando Poe, Jr. is allergic to interviews. He is in good company.

Laughter effectively soothes the nerves. He begins his story midway–as a UST Fine Arts graduate working at a publishing house as a color separator. That stint lasted close to three years despite the fact that he was color blind (depending on an assistant as he does now when using color). It wasn’t that his employer booted him out as soon as his secret was known; that would have made for a more dramatic tale. But the truth was he simply felt his future lay elsewhere.

In his eagerness to become a sculptor, he considered going back to school for another four years of training. It was Prof. Idelfonso Marcelo’s idea that he instead learn the ropes as an apprentice to Prof. now National Artist Napoleon Abueva. The direction is clear at this point: his one-man audience knows precisely that the tale is bound for the Crucible Gallery. But there is something unspoken in his retelling; it’s as if the origin of his art lacks glue.

Only when asked does Jose Mendoza admit to being a toy maker’s son. Maybe, for the third interview of his career, he decides to linger on the high points of his career–his childhood being one of those censorable periods. But that his father was a toy maker instead of a conventional artist is quite significant. As a boy in the 1950s, his eyes feasted on folk toys like small guitars, jeepneys, machine guns that made loud noises, bamboo snakes that moved magically from side to side. All were made of wood and needed no batteries. He learned a lot from watching and mimicking. Eventually, he started creating his own pieces by improving on old designs.

That same thirst for learning kept him on his toes when apprenticing at Abueva’s studio. He found it thrilling to shift from one medium to another–marble, wood, bronze and fiber glass. Ironically, he developed a fear of bronze casting which, when not done cautiously, could send the molten bronze hurtling in the air like scalding lava. The irony lies in the fact that most of his works spanning several decades are mostly in bronze.

Officially, his career as an artist began sometime in 1967 when he produced the huge tamaraw and carabao guarding the façade of Rizal Park. His collaboration with Napoleon Adorra and Francisco Cruz (entitled Bisig) won first prize at the National Art Association of the Philippines (aap) Competition in 1968. That has since been mounted in another part of Rizal Park. His best-known work (more familiar to Filipinos than the artist himself) is the Giant Relief Map of the Philippines visible to harassed commuters breathing the carbon monoxide of jeepneys plying Taft Avenue. The million-peso project (a staggering budget at a time when the dollar was valued at three pesos) took him nine months to complete. As resident sculptor of the park, his works (Janus, Children’s Playground, Garden for the Blind and Reliefs in Cement) are scattered all over the sprawling historical site.

Anyone who has ever been to Makati will surely remember his other sculptures: Tug-of-War (in front of the Intercon Hotel), Gabriela Silang (Ayala Avenue), Pio del Pilar (Paseo de Roxas), Sultan Kudarat (Makati Avenue) and the Bataan Monument (Ayala Triangle). In Davao, he mounted the Centennial Monument of Peace and Unity. The Risen Christ at the Magallanes Church is also his handywork.

While he earned a reputation for being a maker of monuments, he remained unassuming, even aloof. Jobs would filter in through word of mouth, but he has never sought out a project. His most loyal patron is Don Jaime Zobel de Ayala. He doesn’t belong to an art circle nor does he mingle with his colleagues. When attending art exhibits, he waits until the crowds are gone then walks around without introducing himself. "Sometimes, I’m not aware that the person behind me is the artist. I’ve always been a loner. As a boy, I preferred my own company. I would lock myself in my room," he insists.

This inert shyness was not outgrown even when, as an adult, he had to face reporters wanting to interview the man behind all those familiar landmarks. Jose Mendoza remained elusive to the press until Binky was old enough to act as chaperone. Like the cat that ate the goldfish, he says with satisfaction: "I managed to run away from interviews all this time."

However, it stopped being amusing when his children complained that his name could not be found in any book about Philippine art. The Mendoza offspring don’t scrimp on admiration and support for his work. In fact, Binky has modeled for him ("That’s her as a little girl," he says proudly when showing off the back cover of his Crucible Gallery brochure with a tiny photo of Tug-of-War). Through her and her siblings’ efforts, their unassuming father agreed to stage his first one-man show. "Mendoza Sculptures" at the Crucible Gallery in SM Megamall opened on Dec. 18 and will run until Jan. 18. Its underrated artist, having survived the jitters, is now infected with a pleasing malady.

"It’s been wonderful for me to meet all these people!" he reports. "Now I want to come up with an exhibit every year. I’m very excited to try glass casting. Also, I want to do a series of works in the style of my award-winning pieces." Though considered a classical/traditional artist, he is in actuality a modernist at heart. Binky confirms that a browse through his award-winning pieces (several First Prize winners at the aap National Competition) reflect his true inclination.

"I don’t mind staying up nights and working overtime if I’m given the freedom to do what I want. But do I regret being stereotyped as a traditional artist? Not really. Classical art gave me a strong foundation. Even when I’m doing a modern piece I require a model. Sometimes, that shocks people. I like following human shapes," he says.

Not all interesting shapes have to be human. Mendoza is an unlikely mall rat. He likes strolling in and out of stores in search of anything to enhance his next project. Once, he could not take his eyes off some slender glass candelabras. The quick purchase (three no less) ended up in his studio as a base for some stainless steel sculptures.

When composing a new piece, he often allows the material to come up with its own image. That’s how he came up with Hula-Hoop–a dynamic stainless steel piece atop a glass base fashioned from his department store find.

That, of course, is not how monuments are made. Commissioned works demand a lot of research. Aside from his own team of researchers, the artist depends a lot on materials provided by his client. But even careful planning is not a guarantee of perfection. The Sultan Kudarat monument, one of his personal favorites, contains a few flaws.

"I’ve been told that sultans don’t wear their turbans that way. They also don’t wear bands on their legs. If only it weren’t too expensive, I’d want to correct the mistakes. Even up to now, I check up on my sculptures. I personally tell their owners if they need repairs," he says. "Whenever I see the Relief Map, I feel good. I can’t imagine how I was able to make it. There was a time when (weatherman) Amado Pineda used a photo of it when doing the weather forecast on TV."

Nothing lasts forever. Aside from exposure to the elements, his sculptures have also fallen victim to thieves who sell scrap metal by the kilo. The figures are bent out of shape by kids whose eager hands are inclined to climb and hang. Relocation, as in the case of most monuments in Makati, can likewise add stress. However, the beauty of bronze is that it can last up to a hundred years.

And, when he is long gone, the statues are not the only legacy he intends to leave behind. "I used to hide from young artists who want to learn from me. You see, I have a hard time putting into words how art is created. Unfortunately, none of my children is interested in continuing my work. Now that I’m getting older, I’m becoming more open to the idea of turning mentor," he shares hesitantly.

Jose Mendoza has relented about doing one-man shows and taking in apprentices. But doing interviews is a different matter. Told that he has survived the experience, he sighs loudly and declares: "Please, let this be the last."