Chasing Mr. Bautista

There were times when I was mad at Benito Bautista for putting me in awkward situations. "Go ahead, talk to her!" he said to me on a flight to Bicol, the island boasting the most perfect volcano in the world. "Ask her questions." He unpacked his obtrusive digital 8 camera and pointed it at us. Smiling nervously and flush from embarrassment, she had the window seat and I was next to her, unable to speak, just as embarrassed. Dissappointed, Bautista put his camera away. He would get really mad a week later when I resisted the idea of singing with an acoustic guitar at the birthday fiesta of Ramon Magsaysay, then-governor of Zambales, a coastal province north of Manila. Luckily, the fiesta was bigger than we thought and Magsasay was behind dozens of armed guards on a balcony, above the masses, far from my guitar.

But over years of friendship the most important lessons I learned from Bautista was that making ideas come to life, whether an art show in San Francisco, a documentary in the guise of a surf trip or a post-modern psychological thriller, takes a single-pointed focus and success depends on building community. Venturing out on my own creative pursuits, he remains a source of inspiration as the competition I can't keep up with and the mentor who leads by example.

Though it's been years since working with the five-man crew on the Gift of Barong, the 2-3 years of intense involvement led us from conception (my invitation came sitting at the wall, post-surf, at Lindamar Beach in Pacifica) through post-production and the hustling of the film to festivals and screenings as various as Riordan High School and the San Francisco Asian Art Museum and MoMa. The years were a blur of grassroots fundraisers, shows and dinners and parties with producers, musicians and supporters. Benito was at the helm for all of these, able to go from talking business to explaining his vision, all the while cracking jokes and spreading good vibes. Though I rarely see Benito these days, social networking allows me to keep up on the life of this eternally youthful man who never keeps still and never stops working.

O' he e Nalu

The completion of the installation hit me when I saw two young ladies with smart phones taking pictures of two of my old surfboards, one band-sawed in half, the other table-sawed into cross-sections in boxes in the gallery. The goal of the pieces and the collaboration with Peter L'abbe was to make an experience. The editor from * posted something along that lines of how art should be something visceral and I went the "fanciful" route in my head with this project the same way I thought I could relate "The Large Glass", by Marcel Duchamp, to "Truth and Lies" by Nietzsche, in a term paper. I got an A, but she said it was fanciful.

For instance: telegraph is a form of communication; or rather, telegraph is a vehicle for communication. Classic Cars West, where "O' he e Nalu, Objects of Inquiry" is displayed, is on 27th Ave. between Broadway and Telegraph Blvd. Telegraph goes six miles north into Berkeley where I work. My coworker, who lives off Telegraph walked five miles north to his house after losing his girlfriend in the crowd.

The significance of having a street party, whether it's called First Fridays or Art Murmur, on Telegraph once a month isn't lost in my associative disorder. The stirrings and hopes of something revolutionary are not lost in this. Is it possible to communicate hope through a street name through a street party through the Telegraph?

Well, I ask because I can, I imagine because I hope, and I accept this fanciful outlook because I believe. Not in a word or an abstraction, but in what's in front of me. From electronic bits to blood, sweat and tears, you are reality. saludos at salamat