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Filipino artist Wipo and his journey to the end of the self

BY Patrick de Veyra

December 21, 2024
12:54 pm

Filipino artist Wipo paints a visual language impacted by trauma, death, and the boundaries of the self

“As an artist, I feel compelled to understand my inner world—why I think the way I do, why I respond to stimuli the way I do. The trauma of almost dying is a state of being I constantly return to. The memory of surviving has given me a deep sense of gratitude for everything I have today,” says Wipo.

The Manila-based Filipino contemporary artist is known for his multidisciplinary work—primarily abstraction and photography—that explores existential themes of memory, trauma, death, and healing.

From the outset, Wipo was aware that he wasn’t a cookie-cutter student fixated on academic achievement. Growing up in the ’90s, his true passion lay in art and pop culture. Some of his childhood cultural influences were the comic book characters Venom and Spawn. Even as a child, he has developed an affinity for the gritty and the macabre.

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Born in 1989, Wipo—legally known as Jeff Baligad—grew up in a comfortable middle-class household. His parents ran a thriving plastics company, a family business that came to a sudden halt due to his father’s substance abuse. The closure of the business had an immediate and profound impact, forcing Wipo to quickly learn the meaning of grit and resilience, adapting to a life where hustle became the all-important skill.

Unlike many visual artists who pursued a studio arts course in art school, Wipo chose to study advertising at university. His rude awakening came when he realized his family’s dwindling finances could no longer support his education. Wipo grappled with his life choices, particularly his career path, knowing there was little room for error. The loss of their family business made it a make-or-break moment for him, especially regarding his decision to continue his university education. His situation meant the only way forward was to have some skin in the game.

He asked himself: Is my passion for art worth the gamble?

Fast forward to today, Wipo—known for his dynamic pictorial fields that explore his personal philosophy on trauma, memory, and healing—has carved out a space for himself within the thriving local art scene.

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His most recent solo show “Mula sa Bituin Hanggang Buto” at Blanc Gallery and his participation in the group show “On The Self” at Faculty Project showcase works that reveal his evocative explorations within his evolving visual vocabulary.

In this conversation, he reflects on what it means to create a visual language that responds to a series of unfortunate events in his life and the transformative power of turning trauma into a language of release and gratitude.

Who is Wipo?

I’m a painter and photographer and my name is Wipo, a name I coined from “will power” after surviving a car accident in 2014. My legal name is Jeff Baligad.

My early works depict silhouettes of human figures using expressive, painterly techniques. My current works are more nonrepresentational and convey a sense of movement as a result of my visceral and violent engagement with paint as medium.

Wipo art — Wipo’s visual language is rooted in abstraction

My work is a search—an exploration of identity, a reflection of my sense of being. The iconography in my early works emerged from a faceless, ghost-like figure in my dreams—perhaps a subconscious projection of myself. Through my process and visual vocabulary, I am driven to trace this haunting figure and attempt to uncover something deeper: to find myself and, in the process, approach the edge of who I am. My near-death experience fundamentally impacted how I view myself as an artist and as a person.

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How did you become a full-time studio artist?

My path wasn’t easy or straightforward. I studied fine arts with a focus in advertising at the University of the East but had to pause for three semesters due to personal challenges. In my sophomore year, I realized my family couldn’t afford my education after our business collapsed because of my father’s substance abuse.

I auditioned for TVCs and landed a role alongside Parokya Ni Edgar. I also worked as a photographer for Inno Sotto, which helped me return to school and finance my art education. Later, I joined a graphic design team that eventually dissolved. At the time, I didn’t understand contemporary art, had no mentors, and didn’t see being a full-time artist as a viable career. What I did know was that I loved art, comics, and drawing—so much so that I bought my first set of art materials with my first salary.

My journey has been shaped by my determination to overcome obstacles, and my studio practice has been supported by close friends—Pam Quinto, Miguel Lorenzo Uy, Celine Lee, and Jed Gregorio. While my path to becoming a full-time artist has been unconventional, I’m deeply grateful to be able to do what I do now.

What is the most pivotal experience in your life that has deeply impacted your artmaking?

My near-death experience in a vehicular accident profoundly changed me. Facing death altered my art practice—my iconography, conceptual framework, readings, and the questions I ask myself. Art became my anchor as a human being and the vehicle through which I confront my existential questions: Why am I alive today? Why am I here?

As an artist, I feel compelled to understand my inner world—why I think the way I do, why I respond to stimuli the way I do. The trauma of almost dying is a state of being I constantly return to. The memory of surviving has given me a deep sense of gratitude for everything I have today.

During my two years of grappling with PTSD from the car crash, my father gave me a book on Buddhism. I was struggling deeply with my life, and though my religious beliefs have been in flux for the past years, his gesture of care and support brought me comfort.

How has your near-death experience influenced your creative process?

I was afraid of losing my ability to remember—haunted by the fear of memory gaps and amnesia. To cope, I began journaling endlessly and documenting everything through photography. I created a system to help myself preserve as much as I could. This became my existential response to death.

Your most recent solo show “Mula Bituin Hanggang Buto” at Blanc Gallery references that car crash. Tell us more about it.

“Mula Bituin Hanggang Buto” was a show about gratitude. Over the past decade, I’ve witnessed so much—the good, the bad, and the tragic—and creating art that has healed me feels like enough reason to be grateful. In that show, I painted on a car hood using black and white pigments on the same red color of the car I was in during the crash. The piece is both painting and object, painterly and sculptural, merging the found object with gestural abstraction. Through it, I was able to concretize a psychological experience. I channeled the sensation of collision by throwing a bust I made onto the hood, creating surface markings of depressions and scratches that evoke a sense of controlled violence.

I decided to include the bust I made in “On The Self,” the group at Faculty Projects, while the car hood painting found its place in my solo exhibition at Blanc. For me, these two conceptually related pieces serve as a thread connecting the two shows, both of which explore similar curatorial themes.

Can you tell us more about your visual language as an artist?

I like to think my visual language is shaped by my pursuit of “release”—release from my ego and my preconceived understanding of the self.

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Why is your visual vocabulary rooted in abstraction?

I’m drawn to abstraction because representational images can’t fully convey the feelings I hope to express. I often ask myself: What is the feeling of fear, of loneliness, or what I call “magic spots”—a space between a sweet spot and a soft spot. These magic spots, for me, reflect my childhood experience of being left alone, without an adult to turn to for help, when my mother became a victim of an illegal recruiter. Abstraction allows me to articulate these “magic spots” in a way that feels more honest and direct.

Abstractionists like Wassily Kandinsky, Kazimir Malevich, Jackson Pollock, and Mark Rothko grappled with formal concerns in the development of their respective visual languages. What are your formal concerns as an abstractionist?

Energy and movement. My work aims to capture the dynamic flow of energy drawn from my psychological experiences, particularly trauma and breaking free from my own ego.

At times, I wonder if abstraction within the context of painting can fully capture what I want to convey. Yet, of all the modes of representation in painting, abstraction still offers the closest way to express these inner currents. It allows me to visualize the intensity and motion I feel, even if it can never fully capture their complexity and depth.

Julie Mehretu said, “I’m really interested in the nondefinitive element of abstraction.” If you were to leave us a quotable quote about the essence of your work, what would it be?

“Just doubt it.”

Being able to doubt everything—including myself and what I claim to believe—is essential to my creative process. Doubting keeps me grounded and honest.

Who are your three favorite artists?

Ling Quisumbing. She taught me to keep producing work until I find my own visual language. Roberto Chabet, the father of conceptual art in the Philippines. I truly admire his legacy. Frank Stella’s works, which I saw in person in Singapore years ago, expanded my understanding of art, showing me the endless possibilities beyond what I had traditionally conceived as art at the time.