PRESIDENT RAMON MAGSAYSAY STATE UNIVERSITY

REPORT BY: ANDREA MAE E. MOYA

BSBA-1B

SUBMITTED TO: REGINA ECLEVIA

THE ARTIST AND HIS STUDIO

Before the Renaissance Period, artworks were left unsigned. Artist claiming authorship for their
works by affixing their mark onto the surfaces of their paintings were a big milestone in the history of the
artist. Combined, these resulted in a wider variety or artworks, not just in form, but more so in style and
technique. The site that saw this shift was a very personal space for the artist himself, which is the studio.

Today, artist studios have been place of interest for the public. It is interesting to see and
learn where creativity manifests itself, especially since an artist’s studio is an extension of the
artist himself. The studio model dates back from the Renaissance. Therefore, artist flexed their
relationship with their patron as a site where negotiations and works were made.

More painters enjoyed painting on their own behalf, creating works they wanted to create.

During the latter part of the 1800’s artist began to questions the merits of stringent artistic
training and education, but it was during the 1900’s that art was truly liberated from the
traditions of the past. Perhaps, it was then that artists found freedom to articulate their distinct
aesthetic way of creative production.
PLAYERS IN THE WORLD OF ARTS
STUDIO MANAGER

STUDIO ASSISTANT

Typically work for established artists whose works are in high demand. Assistants handle
the daily operations of a studio so artist can devote more time to art creation. Work duties vary
depending on artist needs and can range from general to highly specialized assistance.

GALLERY DIRECTOR

A gallery director is in charge to the business side of a company so it also takes charge on
everything that uses and receives money. Although sometimes, galleries do have a department for
that, it is still under the leadership of a gallery director

GALLERY ASSISTANT

Start the day by opening the gallery and by closing the galleries as well. They need to
make sure that the gallery is clean before opening and closing and that no one is around before
shutting down operations.

ARTIST

An artist is a person engaged in an activity related to creating art, practicing the arts, or
demonstrating an art.

ART CRITICS

An art critic is a person who is specialized in analyzing, interpreting and evaluating art.
Their written critiques or reviews contribute to art criticism and they are published in newspapers,
magazines, books, exhibition brochures and catalogues and on web sites.

DEALER

Is a person or company that buys and sells works of art. Art dealers' professional
associations serve to set high standards for accreditation or membership and to support art
exhibitions and shows.

CURATOR

A keeper or custodian of a museum or other collection.

 COLLECTOR

A person who collects works of art.

 ART DIRECTOR

The person responsible for overseeing the artistic aspects of a film, publication, or other
media production.

 MUSEUM PRESS OFFICER

Are employed by organizations to act as their main point of contact for the media. These
guys act as the official representatives of their organizations and handle all matters relating to the
press.

 MUSEUM EDUCATOR

Teaches in a museums, art exhibit and cultural sites. They make sure that tourists,
students and spectators learn from the places where they are visiting.

 MUSEUM DIRECTOR

He/she is the one who manages all the works so this best explains to us that he/she has a
high position in the museum. Also, this person is the one who organizes the proper work flow in
the museum.
PRODUCTION PROCESS

The process of creating an artwork does not necessarily follow a linear progression. The
reason why different arts styles, periods, and movements were made possible, is because there
was a form of flexibility given to artists in terms of how to conceptualize and execute their ideas
into reality. But this not mean there is no guiding principle that governs the general process of art
production.

PREPRODUCTION
it may not necessarily be fully formulated, and so some form of exposure, research, and other
approaches may be explored to get the idea long before actually making the artwork. This process is of
course the preproduction stage.

PRODUCTION
the execution of the art may take a variety of forms such as painting, sculpture, tapestry,
photograph, film, a routine (dance),or a track or composition (music) .Some artworks rely on a precise
and skilled execution, while others need only intuition and a kind of judiciousness in the manipulation of
materials.

POSTPRODUCTION
Once an artwork is finished, it will then be decided on how it will be circulated not only in the art
world, but the many publics.
 PRESIDENT RAMON MAGSAYSAY STATE UNIVERSITY

REPORT BY: MARIE CRIS GUEVARRA

BSBA-1B

SUBMITTED TO: REGINA ECLEVIA

MEDIUM AND TECHNIQUES

*MEDUIM is the mode of expression in which the concept, idea, or message is conveyed. It maybe
concrete or tangible, such as paintings, sculptures, monuments, and structures; or it may be ephemeral or
something transient, such as a track (recording of sound), a film or a performance.

* A chosen medium must not be expected to yield the same results. Giving two different artists the
same exact material and the general qualifier of paintings, “ the end product will still vary minimally or in
an exponential scale. This is where TECHNIQUE comes in, as it the reason why art history is described
by a seemingly limitless example works of art.

*The technique of the artwork shows the level of familiarity with the medium being manipulated.

ENGAGEMENT WITH ART

*if we engage ourselves in art we can express our feelings trough this. Engagement with arts means
you have other ways on how to tell to others what you feel or felt.

AWARDS AND CITATION

*After an artist has spent considerable time in horning his skills, establishing the relevance of the
body of his works, and even gaining respect from his colleagues in art world, he may be considered or
nominated for awards and citation.

-One of Filipino artist receives two major awards the” Orden ng Pambansang Alagad ng Sining
(Order of National artist) and Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan (National Living Treasures Award)”
 People of Consequence
by Ines Taccad Cammayo
Camus and his wife secretly prided
themselves in being, of all the residents in
their barrio, the only ones who had really
known and lived with people of consequence.

When he was a young man, Camus had been

the houseboy of a German haciendero. The
German who was a bachelor had often told
Camus that his punishments were for his own
good because he must learn to shed his
indolent and clumsy ways if he ever hoped to
amount to anything. Unfortunately, before he
could learn more from his stern master, his
father wrote to say that he must come home
right away because his bethrothed was
waiting. The German had mouthed
unintelligible, guttural curses which Camus
listened to with mixed feelings of shame and
pleasure because it meant that he was wanted
after all, but in the end, the German sent him
off with a de hilo cerrada suit, a heavy pair of
boots capacious enough to let him wiggle his
gnarled toes in, and two months extra pay
which came handy fox the wedding
celebrations. That was twenty years ago,
shortly before the war, and although Camus
had all the intentions to see the German off
when he left for his country, the expense and
the effort turned out to him, at the last
minute, discouraging. In the meantime,
Camus and his wife were themselves
becoming people of consequence.

They now owned the best house in the barrio

which, with other lakeside villages, lay at the
base of a high chit which the people called
Munting Azul because a perpetual haze clung
to its summit. To reach the summit, one must
climb the step and circuitous steps that many
years ago, time men, Camus among them, had
hacked out of the thick underbrush that
covered the entire face of the cliff, and then
cemented in places where the down-rushing
water in rainy seasons was wont to wash
away.

One could also leave the village by crossing

the lake westward. The upward climb was the
quicker route but was difficult for the old and
the weak. Once the embankment was
reached, Munting Azul leveled off into fields,
and three kilometers away was the town of
Cuenco.

The town was bypass by the National highway

but jeepney and a couple of minibuses
shuttled to and from the larger towns,
including Capitolyo, on the descent. Cuenco
was the only large town which Camus really
knew although he had been to the Capitolyo
occasionally. When he lived with the German,
they resided in what was called the White
House in the middle of the vast, treeless
hacienda rimmed by forests across the lake.

Meding, his wife, had, in her own

adolescence, lived in the Capitolyo for almost
four years as servant of the Mayor’s family. It
was there that she learned the hard-driving
manners of townsfolk. It constantly amazed
him how she could make idle time yield
profit, and even more astonishing, how,
having made profit, she held on to it. Camus,
a hard worker, was at his fishing long before
the dawn, and later in the day, mending his
nets on the pier he had built from his hut. It
was his father’s life he had learned, and after
he came from the German’s household he saw
no cause and no way to change.

The first thing that Meding did was to barter

over his vehement objections the one male
carabao he owned for a puny female. When it
began to yield milk, she gathered it to make
into a white curd which she molded into
banana leaf containers or boiled into sweet
candy. Not one frasco found its way to their
table. Every Sunday she would climb the
steep ascent to sell her white cheese and milk
sticks in Cuenco.

She gathered the occasional coconuts and

mangoes from the trees behind their house
and sold them, together with the harvest of
fish Camus hauled in every day. She was so
undemanding, she never had to sell at a loss
or to mortgage his catch, and the hard –
dealing middleman who came with his
tempting offers bypassed their house with
great aloofness.

Meding even opened a postal saving account

and once in a while she showed him figures.
As the sum increased he felt he knew her less
and less. Long before she began the feverish
phase of acquiring possessions, when they sat
down to their frugal meal he felt that, perhaps
they could afford something more appetizing.
A look of Meding’s face bent over her plate,
contented in determined self-denial would
silence him.
She astounded him most by buying crochet
thread and needles. In the mornings, keeping
by herself from the village women, she sat at
the window of the little hut, thrusting away at
her hook and thread, making beautiful
patterns of lace that he believed, his heart
bursting with pride, no other wife in all the
lakeside barrios could make, let alone possess
her infinite patience. To his unbelieving ears,
she whispered that he wavy laces were so
prized that housewives in the town willingly
pail for them with sacks of rice.

In time their neighbors ran to them for loans,

and although she never charged usurious
rate, Meding was as hard as stone when it
came to collecting. If the borrower failed to
pay or on time she demanded goods in
payment. Her laconic and unsmiling manner
defeated any jocose attempt at gaining time
and even whining plea bought only the
unfeeling retort that life was just as hard for
her, and that always shamed them into
passing for one better than their neighbors
knew how Spartan was their life.

The first change in the quiet girl he married

came one night: lying, facing each other on
the slatted floor of their bedroom in the hut
which was now their kitchen, she spoke of her
plans, spelled each dream so grimly as to
leave no doubt in Camus’ mind that these
were already real. Talk of a child had long
since been avoided. Now she spoke of
bringing in kiln-dried posts from Cuenco, a
proposal wildly ostentious and impossible,
considering the steep descent from town. She
spoke of galvanized roofing, capiz windows
and all the accoutrements of town houses,
hardware, varnished walls, two big bedrooms,
a sala so spacious it could accommodate their
old hut, and carved narra furniture. When the
house was finally finished – a reality of
shining walls and costly gleaming windows –
Camus went about apologizing for its size.
“We really planned to have it much bigger,
but my wife with her usual good sense wanted
something more modest.”

The house never wore a coat of paint, growing

darker and rain-stained with every passing
season. The bedroom was never occupied
except when out-of-town officials came. It
contained a monstrous, carved and highly
varnished bed. Its snaky posts bore aloft a
wooden balance that gave it unusual elegance.
A three-panel mirrored aparador in the room
was used by no one except guests; so, too, a
washbowl inlaid with mother-of-pearl which
gleamed against the mahogany shadows of
the room.

One day, Meding said, “The young men are

going up to the Capitolyo next week. It would
be a good time for you to go with them.” After
a long pause, she added, “they invite you
every year but you have gone only once. You
could visit with the Superintendent this time.”
At an earlier fiesta, when Camus at the
inspector’s house, the official was already
taken up with his other visitors. The señora
did not know him. She must have also been
distracted at the never-ending stream of
visitors. With an absent-minded wave hand
and murmured acknowledgement, she
ordered someone to unburden him of his
coop of chicken and made him feel at home.
“Well, don’t just stand there!” an old crone
had cackled at him. “Dress the chickens!”
With that she thrust a halo into his hands.
Camus was dismayed, but only for a few
seconds. He spent the rest of the day
cheerfully helping out in the backyard, very
much needed and feeling useful as he stirred
a huge carajay. He had caught a glimpse of
the Inspector but the man was deep in
conversation with some important-looking
men. In a way, he was glad. He had stripped
down to his shorts to save his Americana
from stain.

His only regret about that visit, however, was

his not having been able to join in talk with
the townsmen, When they came to his house,
he never felt shy telling his favorite
recollections of Señor Lehniann, the German
master whom many of them had heard of but
never seen, “lie was a man of few words and a
great reader. There was this thick book which
he always read but would never let me touch.
Otherwise he was extremely generous with
other things. Advice. His old clothes.
Sometimes money.”

As the years passed, his stories of intimacy

with the German master grew, and there were
times when he ventured saying that he was
such the confidant of the aleman that they
used to hold long conversations. The aleman
had often said that he should aspire to go to
Manila to study, and that, he would make
good because he would then cultivate further
the inclination and the attitude, that he
acquired through exposure to better things.
Time had a way of making resolutions fade,
but the inclination remained, Camus would
say, with a complacent shrug.

A few years back, a frequent visitor, the

Councilor for their area, offered him a
caminero’s job on a section of the municipal
road to Cuenco. Camus still remembered the
four short weeks of that only employment
with an emotion akin to righteousness. He
received thirty pesos scrupulously kept their
dirt hidden in their backyards. It was the
grass and the weeds that continually
threatened to overrun the road. Then
someone told him that the same Councilor
had placed someone else as a checker who
had nothing to do but check on the
camineros. With polite apologies to Meding
and the baffled councilor, he left the job.

In the yard of their neighbors house a group

of young men began to gather. Laughter
broke out often and once in a while, someone
slapped a neighbor on the back. Camus could
make out nothing; the whirr of the crickets
seemed to drown out all their talk. He sat at
the window picking with his nails, a veined
and hairy leg drawn up on the bench to
support his chin. In the dusk, the group
looked conspiratorial.

He looked long at Meding clearing the table.

“You are right, I think,” he said half-asking.

Meding shrugged her frail shoulders. She

crossed the wobbly bamboo bridge that
connected their house to the old hut. Camu
followed her without a word, wondering what
she would do.

She led the way to the smaller of two rooms.

“I have prepared your white suit,” she said.

She knelt before the wooden trunk, took a

black key from the ring which always hung at
her waist and twisted it into the keyhole. The
suit lay on top of all the old clothes, like a
silent shock that it had been years since he
wore it. The fragrance of its being kept in the
trunk was wafted to him, redolent of an
opulence he had never really enjoyed again
after that morning of his wedding. Camus
received it with some shyness. It was almost
like a ritual and Camus was glad that the soft
light hid his emotions.

All their life, sentiment had had very little

meaning perhaps because love had never
figured in the courtship. Camus married
Meding because his father and her father had
agreed on the union. She had submitted
impassively, although he had heard she was
spirited girl. The vaunted spirit was to be
known by him only through the regimen with
which he had imposed on their lives.

Sometimes when the barrenness of living

engulfed him with a misery he could not
understand, he felt that this was as it should
be, life is hard, why should he complain, she
was an ardent example of what hard work and
frugality could bring. In this reveries, he
began to believe in the gladsome fullness of
his life as the German had said it could be.
Camus held the coat before him. “It may no
longer fit me,” he said.
He felt that he had grown bigger, taller, more
expansive in girth, so that when the coat slid
easily over his shoulders and the pants hung
loosely around his waist, consternation filled
him. He realized that he had really, looked at
himself for sometime. He turned and lifted
the lantern from the hook and walked slowly
into the bigger bedroom where the three-
paneled aparador stood.

The man in the mirror was someone he

scarcely knew. He was stooped-shouldered,
his chest caved in, and his silvery hair that
stood erect in a close-cropped aguinaldo cut
was sparse and revealed his shiny brown
scalp.

The face- taut and mask-like – shook him. He

began to think that he would never be able to
greet his hosts in the capitol like with that
boisterous warmth they themselves greeted
him when they mounted his stairs. Even if he
had never intended to do so, he had long
since he learned that humility pleased his
visitors.

So the suit did not really matter. All these

years he thought he had really grown stout, lie
was still strong at the nets. He could lift sacks
of rice with ease. Heavy loads never
shortened his breath. When his wife’s face
appeared from the shadows in the mirror, he
felt even more saddened. He wondered did
she ever feel the need to look and live well, to
experience heady well-being. Her lips drew
back unsmiling, and as an answer to his
thought, she spoke, her eyes betraying
nothing: “You have not changed much. The
years do riot tell on you.”

Camus stared at his image like it were

stricken adversary. He slowly unbuttoned the
coat dropped the pants and handed them
back to Meding.

“Perhaps you had better put this back in the

trunk.” He looked at his wife in the mirror
and in a voice not his, he told her that he
could not go.

She listened to him indifferently; already in

her mind, she was counting the chickens
which she must catch, tie up and cage in
stripped baskets. She knew how in the town
every leaf of vegetables had its price and these
would be her husband’s levy. She had
watched him welcome those people with
touching sincerity that somehow made the
patronizing tones of his guests sound boorish.
And she, too, had a acquiesced, having
learned from dealing with merchants that
sometimes yielding was only way of getting
your due.

The young men are starting early in the

morning. We must be up before the first cock
crows,” she said flatly, refusing to yield to the
pleading in his eyes.

The crowd of women converged on Camus the

moment he alighted from the bus, screaming
and tugging at his two chicken coops. Then as
suddenly as a swarm of flies that have found
another victim, they dispersed, he wing him
with the empty containers and several smelly
bills in his hands.

Camus stared at the money, then quickly

pocketed it. He walked towards the church,
not minding the crowd, the hawking vendors
who thrust bundles of cake at his face. Camus
rubbed the back of his hand against his
temples. Every step was taking him nearer to
the Superintendent’s house and how could he
go to him without the chicken’s of his throat
was parched, the vendors thrust their wares
at him again. Pinipig! Balut! Kropeck! Mais
laga! Above the voices, in a tinkling bell now
attracted him. He turned around, an ice
cream vendor smiled at him: Ice cream, sir!
Ice cream! They exchanged a look of
understanding.

He watched the vendor pat layers of multi-

colored ice cream into the cone, yellow, violet,
white. A final, careful pat of chocolate. He
waved away the insistent hands and wares of
the other peddlers. Slow he drew the money
from his pocket, picked the bill most frayed
and gave it to the vendor. As he licked the ice
cream, savoring the taste, he stretched out his
hand for the change. All was quiet in the plaza
now, and suddenly he realized that he had
almost twenty pesos to spend as he pleased.
He squinted craftily about him, seeing for the
first time the enticements of the shops,
hearing for the first time the loud speakers
talking to him alone. Yes, he must tell his wife
how pleased the good lady had been, how
truly line gentlemen and friend the
Superintendent was.