The elevator doors opened to a melange of art, overlaying the stretch of white on either side of the hallway from floor to ceiling and end to end with paint and frames and a few scattered curiosities.
Down the corridor, the colorful trail continued to span the entirety of the wall perpendicular to it—and we haven’t even set foot inside her actual home yet.
By the time this article comes out, the top floor lobby of journalist-entrepreneur Ces Oreña-Drilon’s residential building would have been cleared—a blank canvas awoken from a fever dream.
The unit owners association had given her notice about her “private exhibit,” Oreña-Drilon lamented. It was time to pack it up.
“Sad, isn’t it?” she said. “If there’s anything we learned during the pandemic, it’s that your place should give you joy.” Besides, she added, her sole neighbor didn’t mind.
A peek inside her unit was enlightening, to say the least. With the space already brimming with all manner of art, the spillage almost seemed like a natural—if rather irregular—consequence. If not for one of her children’s warning to respect the negative space, she would undoubtedly have squeezed in more pieces. As it was, her gorgeous home is a place of beauty, life, power and purpose, where kitsch and defiance meet refinement for fond and lively chatter.
Her artist ex-husband, Rock Drilon, had always taken charge of decorating their former home. So when she moved into her current apartment 13 years ago, she finally had free rein over what went where.
Over those years, her taste evolved, first leaning toward abstractionism (possibly due to exposure to her former spouse’s art), then later on learning to also appreciate figurative art. These days, she said her inclination had been pulling her toward nature, perhaps stemming from her affinity to plants that eventually bloomed into Provenciana, her business venture that offers smudge sticks made of dried herbs and flowers grown mostly in her large rooftop garden.
Eclectic mix
The first piece Oreña-Drilon bought for her place was made by her artist friend Bernie Pacquing. The breezy colors of “Homage to Cy” (referring to American abstract expressionist Cy Twombly) liven up the wall that runs alongside her wooden dining table. But strewn all over the place are innumerable pieces she picked up from their now defunct art gallery, her travels and her time trawling art fairs like Art in the Park. The result was a maximalist daydream—an eclectic mix of media, form and genre.
By the entrance is a sculpture of Elmer Borlongan’s “Hari Sonik,” with the philodendron selloum flourishing behind it, making it look like the character was sprouting spindly wings. On top of the piano by the opposite wall is a line of crucifix toy figures by Ronald Ventura and an ominous painting by JC Jacinto above it. Tucked in the corner of her living room is Geraldine Javier’s depiction of a Rafflesia arnoldii, the biggest flower in the world, the edges frayed from puppy bites—only one of the victims of her five adorably frisky Shiba Inus Lyka, Dymka, Ichiro, Haruko and Mishka.
In her rooftop yard, among herbs and flowers and native citrus fruits, lives Pete Jimenez’s metal sculpture “Garapata.” On the table is a ceramic likeness of the coronavirus by Washington, DC-based Filipino potter Hadrian Mendoza, whom she discovered via an article pitch. Magis’ spun chair puts the “fun” in functional art.
Unsurprisingly, the veteran journalist has a penchant for art as recorder of history, like how the encased gas mask and the huge painting of a blister pack of some medication are symbolic of the times, hinting at the struggles during the pandemic.
Her collection is also littered with commentaries: The depiction of the false promises of migration she picked up in Mexico acknowledges the allure and dangers of seeking a better life abroad.
On what she calls her “political wall” is a piece from Kiri Dalena’s show “Erased Slogans,” which consisted of a series of photographic prints based on archival newspaper images of protests in 1970s Manila, portraying protesters holding placards with the slogans removed. There is also one of her favorite paintings of a slogan “Police the police,” silkscreened on an old newspaper, by Thai artist Rirkrit Tiravanija and American artist Tomas Vu. Below it is an image of people’s faces being sucked into their device while taking a selfie, by Poklong Anading.
In her likeness
Above her wall-mounted shelf bursting with books and knick-knacks is the word “LOVE” made out of toy soldiers and an AK-47 wrapped in lace from an old woman’s dress.
In her bedroom, she wakes up empowered, seeing images of strong women on a high shelf: a punk Frida Kahlo and a triptych of the last tattooed women of Kalinga photographed by Jake Verzosa.
Surely, Oreña-Drilon cannot be faulted for having a few artworks of her likeness, despite her child’s protestation: In what she interpreted as her rising from the dead, Winner Jumalon painted a juxtaposition of two different photos he took of her. An installation bearing her face by Ginny Alcaide is encased in a cabinet. “Signora Olvida” by Jose Tence Ruiz painted a powerful image of Oreña-Drilon after her 2008 abduction for his “Ayokong Ma-inlab sa Newscaster” show the following year. According to her, Ruiz told her that he chose the title because of how Oreña-Drilon brought herself to the brink of oblivion in pursuit of a story. He included details like bullets in the skirt of her ballgown and the yellow ribbon as an allusion to everyone waiting for her safe return.
One vanity acquisition is a bust of herself created by Julie Lluch, which she had commissioned. Oreña-Drilon remembered visiting the sculptor’s home in the ’80s or ’90s, and later on saw a bust of Eugenio Lopez Jr. by Lluch, and she decided she wanted one as well. It took her decades, after she retired as a reporter, to make the dream come true.
But the empty nester revealed that she intended to retire to her 2,000-square meter farm in Indang, Cavite, where she’d be unable to bring the entirety of her enormous collection. And therein lies the rub.
