Art is Sustenance
Collage holds the Joy, Photography holds the Sadness
Art is not a luxury. It’s sustenance—we need it to survive.
Ethan Hawke’s words from his TED Talk echoed in my mind as I completed 28 collages—one for each day of the month—guided by the daily word prompts from this year’s Februllage. His message feels especially true right now.
The challenge began on February 1st, the same day as Ate Marica’s funeral. That night, after wiping away my tears, I made a quiet promise: I would show up and create a collage each day, in her honor.
A few days later, my sister Malyn opened a drawer in her room and pulled out a black portfolio—a collection of prints I had given her more than twenty-five years ago. I wept as I held it, overwhelmed by the weight of memory and love. She had carried that portfolio from Boston to New York, and finally, to Manila. She was my fiercest cheerleader, the one who believed in me through photography school at Brooks and every creative endeavor that followed.
I looked around Malyn’s apartment and saw my black-and-white photographs and recent collages adorning the shelves in the living room.
She would have wanted me to keep going.
Februllage became a lifeline—a daily ritual where I could lose myself in play and imagination, a creative oxygen mask giving air to my grieving heart. It allowed me to touch joy without betraying my sadness. It gave me permission to embrace whimsy, to live senselessly when Ate Marica’s passing made no sense at all.
It feels counterintuitive, this leaning into joy and play while grief still sits so heavily beside me. But grief cannot be the only voice in the room. To live—to fully inhabit life—means holding both. It’s not either/or. It’s making space for joy and sorrow to coexist.
That’s what I’m learning right now. Some days are harder than others. But still, I try.
And what about photography?
If collage holds the joy, photography holds the sadness.
Our morning walks this week shifted from watching a train of fog swallow the city’s skyline and the Golden Gate Bridge to standing under a cloudless sky, the marina bathed in warm light. One day, the wind was constant, filling the air and drowning out every other sound. The next, calm skies opened to a cascade of birdsong, leading us to notice them more closely—American coots, white-crowned sparrows, rock pigeons, crows, and seagulls.
Photography feels sparse and intentional these days—my iPhone only comes out when the landscape itself seems to whisper, asking me to notice. When grief pulls me back into the spiral of hospital memories, to the realization that Ate Marica is no longer with us, photography calls me to return—to this moment, this light, this sky—and to search, perhaps, for beauty in the stillness and shadow, in the pain and sorrow within.
Even with a broken heart, the world insists on being seen.
“In difficult times, carry something beautiful in your heart,” writes Blaise Pascal. For me, that beauty is the art of photography and collage. They are my sustenance, like the steady bow of a ship carrying me through—whether in joy or sorrow—each an ebb and flow, always co-existing.
In the weeks, months, and even years ahead, I hope to discover a new rhythm of being. Grief changes you; it’s like learning how to walk again, one unsteady step at a time.
Let this be an invitation, dear readers, to journey with me—discovering a path lit only by a lantern, or perhaps a patchwork map, that will lead to glimmers of understanding, quiet lessons, and a tender way forward.
Ethan Hawke’s TED Talk:
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Beautifully expressed words on grief Stella, alongside beautiful images showing the deep waters of emotion. Thank you for sharing this journey here.
Beautiful words and work.
I didn’t do Februllage this year—I lacked bandwidth and motivation for a daily prompt—but I’m so happy it provided a structure for you and a container of sorts for both your grief and joy ❤️