See the full video: https://youtu.be/qTok0XWgHZs
This is a little story about the 15th anniversary of my mom’s passing, and the ritual I’ve adopted since my artist residency at BoxJelly: every year, I sculpt her face using clay with my hands. I use no tools and no photo references— only memory and touch. This work is an exercise in love and memory. It’s a ritual of being with my mother.
I’ve performed this ritual annually since my time at BoxJelly, documenting both process and outcome. This year, for the first time, I wore a white dress with a ribbon in my hair, as if visiting her grave. Rather than working in the privacy of my studio, I brought the practice outdoors, beyond the walls of a home or studio, choosing liberation and a deeper connection to the earth.
This is a love story, but itʻs also a ghost story.
I began the making process with a prayer. I lit a candle and spoke a few words. When I was ready, I removed my shoes and gathered my working surface — a slab of Acacia formosa, native to the Philippines — along with my bag of clay. I had no plan. I only knew I wanted to be with my mother and touch her face.
I mold the clay to the size of a real face—one you could cradle in your hands. I push the clay to form her cheekbones. I sweep clay with my fingertips to form the bridge of her nose. Her cheek begins forming and fits in my palm. I use my nails to form her nostrils. My fingers brush over the eye sockets. For some reason, I donʻt include the eyes this year. I’m not sure why. It just felt right to leave them as soft hollows. Little valleys.
I spend extra time on her lips. I try to remember them exactly but Iʻm afraid that I donʻt. The lips are my favorite part of her face to touch and remember… I had the honor of applying her favorite lipstick to her dry, solid lips at her wake.
I have this worry, this fear in me, that one day, I won’t remember her face. I worry that one day on her anniversary in the future, when she’s been gone longer than I’ve ever expected to be living without her, I worry and fear that one day I’ll be sitting in front a slab of clay and nothing will come. Itʻll be missing everything, and I won’t be able to touch her face at all anymore. Iʻm afraid that I’ll forget all her features. That’s why I keep doing this. That’s why I need to keep making. Even though she’s no longer here on this Earth, I know she’s with me always, yet this ritual keeps me in physical proximity of her memory and love. This is so important to me especially because I have no bones and no grave to visit.
When I finish her face—her bone structure, her lips, her nose—I lower my face to the earth to meet hers. I cup her cheeks, and bring my face down. I let our noses touch. I breathe her in, and we breathe together. As the ritual came to a close, the sky shifted. The mist gave way to a sudden, heavy rain.
Embraced by the downpour, I could feel the presence of all my ancestors.
The raindrops started falling on the smooth clay leaving imprints. I thought about saving her face and saving my work by retouching the places where the rain has fallen, but I decided not to. I didn’t need to make it smooth again. I let heaven’s tears have a place on her face.
I sat in the rain and found myself crying. Held between longing and love, grief and gratitude, I offered a closing prayer. As I gathered myself and wiped away my tears, I heard beautiful, joyful music. I’ve heard this music before, in the middle of the night, in darkness. I turned toward the street, searching for its source, wondering if a passing car carried the sound, but I was alone. No one is there. Still alone beneath Heaven’s tears, I am surrounded by love.