2nd Year of Taming This Tyke’s Voice
August 16, 2009
Jeques Web Nook, Year 2
Today marks the second year of taming my voice as a writer and as an artist in general, in public. My web nook serves as my creative venue where I synthesize life’s inspirations, my journey, random thoughts, dreams, desperations, my share of pains in living, simple joys, bliss, life’s mirths, ponderings ~
My every day celebration for knowing that I breath and my existense is in tune with the universe’s rhymes.
It’s been two years and this nook gifted me with rich produce that I never realized I have inside me, had I not listen closely to the fragile voice that told me stories, recited me poetry, painted my life with colors.
In commemoration with Jeques web nook biennial celebration, I am proud to formally launch my bountiful harvest as an artist in My Art Portfolio. This is the produce from my continuous reconnaissance of my gift.
Follow the tracks of the waif’s journey. And may you whisper a prayer in every turn and trail, for the waif to find his home.
Through my works, I would like to represent the displaced artists in different fields for some reasons, becoming like waifs, that I am, searching for home. I share the sentiments of artists unable to do their arts, caged in the jobs that are far from what their hearts purely desire to do. I aim as an artist to speak to that audience, to inspire them through my works and to make a statement that it is possible. Every art piece I finish is a struggle, but each is a step closer to home. (an excerpt from “Self Portrait Of The Artist In Words” by Jeques. Complete story is found in the last page of the of the portfolio).
PLEASE CLICK IMAGE TO FOLLOW THE TRAILS OF THE WAIF >>>
- “morning panes” #1 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora
- “morning panes” series #1 to 3
- “morning panes” #2 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
- “morning panes” #3 oil on canvas 38×48, by Jeques B. Jamora
‘Tis when I fully understood the colors and the shapes and molds, and the forms, and the feel, and everything about my soul that I trully begun to learn to dress up. ‘Tis when I learned to listen to my heart’s songs that I was able to write his poetry. ‘Tis when I completely viewed my soul with all my senses that I was able to limn the images of the empire I inhabit in my mind reflected in the canvas like vignettes from the corners of my imagination.
Just be with me.
See my heart and soul
And let time
Stand still ~
Look at me.
Show me the spark
behind those eyes
That you would not
Talk to me.
Translate your silence
So I would fathom
In your glances.
Write to me.
Send me letters
Of your heart
So you would fill
My empty page,
In my chamber
Anytime of day
While I’m awake
Or even in my dreams
In my hours
Run your finger tips
On my longing cheeks;
For my hands
For your reassuring
Those elusive eyes
To stay still
Always looking away
From my direction.
Whisper to me.
I want to listen
To your heart
Of your soul.
Let it speak.
Just for a brief moment,
Please look into my eyes,
Let time stand still ~
(“Notice Me,” from the poetry collection of Jeques B. Jamora, 2008)
How do you like me wearing the fabrics of my soul and not the clothes that the world imposed on me to wear when I was younger?
If I tell you what’s inside this mind, would you like what you will hear?
If I tell you you’re part of the dots and lines I create, that you’re in my every brushstroke, each word, each line, in every piece of me would you even care to notice and listen?
If I tell you I weave my story around you, would you be interested to hear that story or buy the volumes of book I write in my mind about us?
Don’t be excited with what you now see,
Don’t love me for what I have so far shown.
Be excited with what else I could do ~
Love me for what more I can show you.
If I tell you that my thoughts of you reside with me in an empire, would you decide to live there ~
And if I tell you I build us home in my heart,
Would you come home with me?
By: Jeques B. Jamora
What if the poet in me dies,
What if my heart’s verses lose their rhymes?
What if my passion is gone,
And there’s nothing left undone?
What if my brush strokes cease to form my thoughts?
What if my paintings fail
Their colors fade
To worthless images?
“L ‘homme qui J ‘aime” oil on canvas, 24×30 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
“What if’s,” too many to hold on
Perhaps, I should just carry on.
What if you’ve got enough of me,
And get bored of me?
What if you shut me up, and oh God,
You would stop, just like that!
What if everything’s done,
You and me forever gone?
Let it be written then among the stars in heavens,
Painted in the infinite skies,
And here on earth engrave them on the marble
Of my tombstone:
Once, there was love here ~
Though ’tis human for a man.
I may sound narcissistic, but learning to love myself helped me define the amount of love I am capable of giving, and helped me define the kind of love I am capable of taking.
Our greatest fears in loving, and giving and taking come from our human mistake of fearing to love one’s self. We go out of our self, we go places, find and wanting things, obsessing people, chasing love, forgetting the true source of what we are looking to be just here all along,
Inside our hearts.
It is everyone’s wish to find that one person that would complete our story. Mine, too.
I wish you well.
Writing . . .
“The tyke’s gone painting”
Please click image to view my art portfolio in progress >>>
“Mystic” oil on canvas, 20×20 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
My creative muse prompts me to begin writing on a fresh page as I start a new process of knowing. This is the time of my life when I do things because I feel like doing them. Like, I write because I would like to read my thoughts tangible in words taking form written on pages, so I would get a better grasp of them.
Like the damselflies of my childhood, I don’t chase my thoughts anymore now that I’m grown up. My mind, like my palms to the damdelflies, I will open so dreams and thoughts could freely alight to show me their beauty. I will befriend this elusive guests instead of running after them like I did during my reckless youth. Perhaps this way, I could encourage their frequent visits.
To The Deeps
When half the world is asleep,
The prying eyes of the nocturnal owl
Stay alert for mice dozing undergrownds.
A turtle slowly prowls in a swamp
Disturbing the resting fishes
On the shallow waters.
Somewhere, you are confined
Asleep in your room dreaming.
While I stay awake questioning.
Am I part of your dreams tonight?
Would I take part in your life
When you awake in the morning?
The night ends
With the owl catching no mice.
The fishes has gone to The deeps,
But the turtle hasn’t reach where ’tis going.
Just like me with my doubts never fading.
But nevertheless always wishing
That one day I’d stop questioning
And to The deeps I’d just let the fishes
Unhurried thoughts and dreams come pellucid like the reflection of the summer skies on a placid river. I aim to write my thoughts that way: to achieve such clarity. These thoughts, my dreams reflected on pages as I allow the readers to grasp them like viewing the river and the skies on a clear summer day.
But sometimes, words are just ain’t enough. There are thoughts and dreams conceived that come in defined shapes, definite forms and rich colors. So I capture them in sketches. Such thoughts and dreams come alive on pads as my pen and pencil give them skin and the ink give them blood and the images from my mind come throbbing alive in sketches.
But then again, oftentimes, I am haunted by vivid dreams and thoughts that not my pen and the pencil nor the ink are enough to breath them life, to bring them the colors like the coquettish fishes flirting my mind with their exotic dance moves in the river where my mind often hovers. They demand to be born and inhabit the canvas, and only my brush strokes could give them soul, only the pallette could bring to life their hued reflections flickering in my imagination ~
Conspicuous in light and shadows.
This is the time of my life when I am fully in touched with my creative muse and the river of my mind is on its calmest state, where any minute movements are reflected that could stir ripples of dreams, and rapture of colors like the blossoms in springtime. The pages and the pads and the canvas are like the verdant fields where my dreams bloom. They are like the river in my mind where the fishes swim to the deeps in their coquettish dance moves that preludes to a million dreams.
The damselfly is within reach – I am taking time to appreciate his beauty as he hovers and I, motionless wishing the damselfly would soon alight in my palms.
Who says that dreams are black and white?
“Childhood” oil on canvas, 24×30 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
Art museums and galleries are the places I often visit, and the Art Institute of Chicago is my favorite. It is like the secluded dusty paths I used to trod when I was a child pulling my carts to endless directions in circles that my young mind then imagined.
I am naturally solitary.
There are things that I grew up doing alone, and they are what I really love to do. Against all odds, I silently fought for these things and from where I stand now, I look back to claim my rewards from my little triumphs.
In one of my quiet strolls in the museum communing with the spirits of the artists gone and living, I observed young students in a group sketch session. I was deeply moved, I felt envious and sad. Some thoughts dawned in me: I always do my arts alone, closed doors, dettached from the world. My father was highly critical of my early works, he is the first battle I fought to shield my natural gift from the many forces that discouraged me and my early pursuits in finding my voice as an artist and my soul in my works.
Watching this young students brought me back to my sketching sessions as a kid. Any empty paper and writing tools are my art materials then – give me anything I could sketch on and I could survive long hours alone away from people. I envy these kids doing there arts in the company of their classmates, enjoying art moments with their friends. When they are my age years from now, and they would stroll through this quiet room, these paintings in the wall would remind them of this moment, but more than that, the walls would echo their whispered giggles that would bring back happy memories.
As they weave their memories unaware, I went back to my own. I visited my solitary self struggling to find meaning in what seemed to be senseless dots and lines I put together to create images that was so insignificant then. Little did I know that those dots and lines would bring me to this point, to look back and find the trails I left to guide me back to how and where my journey started.
I started sketching when I was about 3 years old before I learned how to write, when my grip was strong enough to control a pencil or a pen. The moment I first held a pencil, I knew it in my heart that this is something that I would love to do for a lifetime. And that is how my romance with the arts started, like a-love-at-first-grip kind of thing. I remember my mother was my first teacher and our first subject were flowers. She stopped teaching me when my flower sketches look nicer than the ones she taught me. I outgrew the art lessons my mother gave me quick. And then she became my first admirer, my first fan, my first follower and collector of my works. My first art exhibit was in her store as she show my drawings in the pages of her record notebook to friends. That was my version of an art institute.
“flowers” #1 pen and pencil on paper by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
But there was a negative energy, too, my first critic: my father. He thought my works were insignificant and told me to do other things. I think the hardest thing he did was when he forced me to use my right hand ~ I was born left handed ~ and at 16, when I was so sure of my decission to take up fine arts, he put me to a nursing school.
I was caught in the middle trying to keep my balance early on: between my encouraging, nourishing, consenting mother and my highly critical, discouraging, tormenting father.
I never had formal education in the arts. The gift is ingrained, I was born with the passion, not even my father was able to control from florishing. So in my room, close doors, alone, I had my sketching session as a kid. It was lonely. There was only one person I would seek every time I finish a piece: my mother. Her sincere appreciation of my works nourished me to keep going. But I have to admit all these years, I seek for the approval of my father which he never gave. After my father died in 2008, I thought I’m free now. I always was!
“The mind and the heart and the soul, like the birds, are meant to soar, set it free. Allow your spirit to fly!”
I walk fast many more group of young kids in drawing sessions while I brouse through the paintings on the walls that flood me with mulititude of thoughts from the past, present and future. Nothing has changed in me much, I still am the kid and art is still a solitary life for me and perhaps I would spend it that way for the rest of my life. I have come to terms with myself and solitude has become a bliss.
I, too, am still that kid who would seek my mother’s appreciation everytime I finish an art piece to get her nod and nourishing words of encouragement for me to go on. Only now I seek that appreciation from people who would chance upon my works, like my mother’s friend in the store she would show my drawings of flowers as a kid.
I still am that kid who fear the criticism of my father that made me rip many pages of my sketches, and toss away many works unfinished. Deep in my heart, I have to admit I still seek for his approval that he was so selfish to give.
I see my father’s image in people who thought my works are insignificant, I find courage in people who tell me otherwise. I still am struggling to find that balance from this opposing forces.
Deep inside this heart, ingrained, is a gift that I’m entrusted to nurture alone, close doors, away from people. I remain that waif inside my room as a child connecting senseless dots and lines to create images hoping that people would find them significant, so I could finally find my grown up version of an art institute, my home, your heart.
and like a desolate soul a lonely waif
I await for you to find me.
May your travels not take you long,
Come fast and love me ~
“Waif” oil on canvas 18×18 by : Jeques B. Jamora
Let my scribbling,
And my brush strokes
“Seed” series# 2, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Seed” series# 3, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Seed” series# 4, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Fish Of Mind” (Oil on canvas 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Oct. 2007)
“We depart to arrive, we leave to come home. 2005. Oil on canvas.
“Pedia”, 1998. Pencil on paper
“Fish of mind” study, 2005. 2-piece oil on canvas.
“Tamed” (the original), 2004. Oil on canvas
My apartment walls are becoming an exhibit space to hang my artworks
“Tamed”(enlarged replica) July, 2007 – This is the first painting(oil on canvas, 30×30) I completed here in Chicago.
“Nostalgia” (Oil on Canvas, 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. 2007)
My living room serves as show room for my paintings
“A cut of life , 1 ~ there is some story in everything we see” 2007. Oil on canvas
“A cut of life , 2 ~ there is a cut of life in every piece of me. ” 2007. Oil on canvas
“Solitude”, 2007 – finding my solitude in Chicago. Oil on canvas, 24×30.
“Reflections” 2007 (Oil on canvas, 24×30, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
“Solitude” – anchored, 2005. Oil on canvas
“Nangita Ko Nemo”, 2007 (Oil on canvas, 20×24, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
My witty take on the animated film, Finding Nemo. “nemo” in Visayan/Ilonggo dialect means “You.
“Nangita Ko Nemo – Finding You”,
“Ginpangita Man Ko Nemo?”, 2007 (Oil on canvas, 20×24, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
My witty take on the animated film, Finding Nemo. “nemo” in Visayan/Ilonggo dialect means “You.
“Ginpangita man ko nemo? – Did you seach for me, too?”
“Love, ‘Fish,’ Hope” 2004, oil on canvas
“Childhood,” 1998, pencil on paper
“to the deeps(unfinished)” oil on canvas, 40×48(pending, nov, ‘07 to date) By: Jeques B. Jamora
“The secret garden” 2005, oil on canvas
“To the deeps(unfinished)” Oil on canvas, 40×48(pending, nov, ‘07 to date) By: Jeques B. Jamora