The Necessity of Art
Art is at the heart of how I relate to others. As a queer Filipino American singer songwriter, making music is my way of doing so, but to better understand what I mean, I want to start by talking about articulation, which is central to my songwriting.
Approximately originating from early 15th century, articulation comes from the Old French articulation, meaning “a joint or joining; setting of bones” and Medieval Latin articulationem, which was defined as “separation into joints.” The closest usage to this etymological history is found in anatomy where articulation is defined as the state of being jointed or more literally, specific joints like the tibiofemoral or patellofemoral articulations in our knees. But in music, articulation is defined as clarity and expression of musical notes. Similarly in phonetics, articulation is defined as the formation of distinct sounds in speech, the expressive action of putting words into coherent ideas, or sometimes the very uttering of sounds into communication.
In songwriting, musical composition and audio production, the artist can choose the lyrics, melodies, harmonies, chords, instruments, voices, sounds, effects, filters, rhythms, tempos, and so much more. The choices, connections and combinations I make as a songwriter articulate a particular lens for understanding a story. In other words, my songwriting affords me the ability to package a musical piece like a gift for you to unwrap, listen and interpret. And ba da bing, there you have it, the fundamentals of Communication 101.
To give an example, last October, I released my album Apollo’s Refuge, which grew from the aching anxieties, angst and agony of 2020. Immersed in a festering sadness, I was reminded of Audre Lorde’s essay Poetry is Not a Luxury, in which she says, “Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought.”
For me, songwriting is similarly an introspective medium through which I craft combinations of the old and forgotten to open recycled, reimagined ways of seeing the world. It is an affective way of creatively resisting what is, embracing instinct and creating a vocabulary for the heartbreak many of us know too well.
Initially when I began Apollo’s Refuge, I carved and fabricated an isolated island for myself to shut out the terrible pandemic plastering our lives in a disorienting chaos of uneven intensity, a pandemonium. But as I peered beyond my refuge of reflection (beyond my ivory tower), I was compelled to compose music with a new vision after witnessing the moving response of protestors taking to the streets for the Black Lives Matter movement despite the risks it posed to their well being.
I admit I was too scared of contracting the coronavirus to join. I regret not showing up. And I apologize to my Black friends and I am taking concrete steps to build solidarity. As one example to express solidarity, the protests made me think, perhaps, rather than reserving the safety my music offers me just for me, I should bravely share this safety because everyone deserves a safe place to land. With this belief, I set out to write, compose, and restructure my entire album. I moved away from creating an electronic pop copy of my former album Heartstrings where I was able to mask my feelings in layers of synth and electronic percussion toward a raw, collaborative singer-songwriter collection of vulnerable stories told not just by me, but also by friends and family. Since then, the money I’ve made from my music has gone into supporting Color of Change and Refugee & Immigrant Transitions.
This was my way of moving past my personal fears brought on by the pandemic, our government, and the racial injustices that continue to plague our lives. I returned to my art, which has always been that source of solace for me and decided to build a collaborative musical refuge for those who feel lost, afraid, or in need of a place to rest in these times of chaos.
Conjuring allegories of Greek mythology, I artistically articulated stories through my songwriting that were designed to offer avenues of connection, a place for refuge and glimpses of hope. My art may be about my own vulnerabilities and insecurities, but they are points of departure and apertures for conversations, all of which I hope to extend to you as a way to relate, find refuge and remind you that we’re not alone.
Inspired by Audre Lorde, I hope I have provided a compelling case for the necessity of art and therefore, this is why I seek to start my newsletter with poetry, with art. Now you may have already read this poem via social media, but if we are to decolonize and diversify our ways of thinking, seeing, and feeling, then we must be open to learning through different modalities of knowledge. And so through this poem, I am learning how to navigate my own grief and perhaps it may illuminate ways for you to do the same.
A Satellite Call
In response to the horrifying attack that happened to Noel Quintana in February of 2021, I wrote this poem to release the tension that boils and curdles beneath the pores of my Brown skin. To give context, I want to reinstate my intention behind this poem more explicitly, which is to:
illustrate the anger and loneliness I feel in the appropriation of some media outlets, corporations and politicians who wield the #StopAsianHate movement to create a exceptional spectacle of moral turpitude and crisis as a way to make profit, win votes from constituents of color, and obscure the complex realities and histories of systemic violence.
display an outcry for help, a satellite call launched into the interstellar cloud of the internet in hopes to inspire us to feel moved to openly have these hard and uncomfortable discussions and to support our fellow friends and comrades who are struggling in these times by offering them refuge.
In light of the attack on Vilma Kari a 65-year old Filipina woman in New York City on Monday, March 29, 2021, I also want to take a moment to make space in my writing to cry and grieve.
Grief.
Grief.
Grief.
Satellite
A satellite in New York City
I call out, can anyone hear me?
Will someone listen to the anger seeping
In my skin, the burning, the bleeding
Bubbles fester, my veins are seething
Flames flash floods fire, someone cradle me softly
Slashes carved into my cheeks
Like the soil beneath my feet
Bottomed and Brown, to be excavated
Uprooted, stripped, raped and naked
One step removed, it’s easy to say
That commas delay and memories fade
But in roast and jest, I’m sensitive to spice
My scars still remind me how commas can splice
Lonely driftwood, the borders have crossed me
In untethered limbo, a shadowy destiny
Traps and terror maps built into my psyche
Haunted and drifting in unfaithful irony
Brown and queer, as I am, do you see?
Among orbiting satellites, a glorious symphony
Golden legacies, colonial chemistries
Still radio silence, can anyone hear me?