I tried my best not to comment anymore on the demise of the National Artist awards. The issue seemed best handled by those vanguards of culture: those whom I believed would keep ours alive for good.

Besides, the call for bread (or in our case, rice) is often what echoes strongest among our people, and not art; so who was I to deny them this in exchange for my petty rant about something they probably couldn’t be bothered to care about? It was settled, or so I thought, until, one night, we came to say grace before our meal and I felt, for the very first time, the immense gratitude I owed art.

My father is an artist, after all. His photographs were what put a roof over our heads and gave all three of us siblings the opportunity to go to school. Plus, the company he kept often included a number of artists whom we considered part of the family. So perhaps, I owe them and their professions more than just the quiet I was willing to settle with. So, if you’ll indulge me, here are a few things I thought I’d share:

First, my beef has little to do with Carlo J. Caparas (CJC). People have debated lengthily on him so much so that he’s currently cast as a lead in a media massacre directed by PGMA. While the Palace pussyfoots around its decision, we’re stuck debating his merit when the issue clearly lies in that, yet again, there was a failure to respect due process.

For years now, the NCCA and CCP have set and upheld regulations that have guided us in naming our national artists. There wasn’t any need to clamor then because everyone, including those in power, did what they had to do.

Today, though, the story is different: a “dagdag-bawas” scheme, otherwise known as the presidential prerogative, is employed, adding four new names and removing one. The removal alone of Ramon Santos is deplorable but the addition of CJC (in two categories) and Cecile Guidote-Alvarez (CGA) while she currently holds a position in the NCCA is quite a slap in the face. Don’t tell me PGMA didn’t know that CGA worked for her? And what of this honor’s committee who to this day remain anonymous? Where are they now and why can’t they justify their decision? Why is it that despite the clamor, we are met with silence? Don’t worry. I’m not militant enough to call for the ouster of PGMA. I just want the truth. But honestly, a lying government is not what breaks me most.

I mourn the death of the National Artist Awards because in its brutal assassination, I bore witness to how many persons and institutions previously revered, all likewise fell into decadence. In its death, the awards took to the grave all hope that someday someone from our generation might aptly be recognized for describing who we were through art. There is also that profound emptiness I feel, which emanates from the fact that artists whose works have in many ways defined our culture will now remain lost to us forever. How can we thank them, let alone, discover ourselves through their art when we don’t even know them?

Maybe I am being too naïve but all my life I’ve sincerely believed that the purpose of having these awards lay simply in that our people had to be introduced to the richness of our culture. Otherwise, it would become alien and render us bereft of an identity. Then again, aren’t we already? When was the last time you visited one of our museums or watched a Lino Brocka film? Have you gotten to know the masterpieces of Arturo Luz, Billy Abueva or even the iconic Fernando Amorsolo whose paintings depict not only landscapes but also the Filipino soul? What about the music of Levi Celerio and Lucio San Pedro? Unfortunately, much of our art exists without an audience let alone space to breathe. Our books that are deserving of discussion are instead made to gather a following of dust-mites since having been defeated by the snazzy vampire love tomes.

The real tragedy here isn’t the death of a ceremony benefiting few but rather the possible demise of people’s interest in their culture altogether! Art is so readily available to us, and yet it is as if we are the ones who are too proud and elitist to allow ourselves the chance to be moved by what is inherently our own. In college, (in Ateneo, no less) where it is commonly believed that all kids are burgis, I could count only a handful of students and teachers who made regular visits to the art gallery to view its awesome collection. Imagine that? In these very institutions hell-bent on awakening us to our respective milieu, we remain quite aloof.

So, why not give our art a chance? The awards might have croaked, but our culture need not.

Nash Tysmans graduated AB European Studies last March.