Elegy to a crush
Every other week or so, my inbox pings with an email that sends my heart aflutter. And each time I see the sender’s name, I allow myself—for a fleeting moment—to indulge in the fantasy that the sender was addressing me, and only me.
Alas, I am but a mere entry in his email database. And it’s not even his personal email list, but his gallery’s. The kilig I feel, nevertheless, is real, as real as the frisson that ran through me when I first ventured into a stand at the Art Asia Hong Kong Art Fair in 1992 and found myself face-to-face with a Jasper Johns painting—not to mention a very dapper man in a suit shortly after.
One moment in time
We had a moment. Or maybe I had a moment. Nevertheless, we did have a lovely, if brief, conversation. His eyes seemed to smile behind his glasses. He asked me where I was from, and I wished I didn’t have a husband.
I knew he was married, too, without him saying so. His wedding had been splashed all over the UK papers. It wasn’t long before he set up his own massively successful London gallery, which I visit from time to time, hence my inclusion in their mailing list. I’d never run into him again until I espied him from afar in his booth at Art Basel HK last year.
Crushes are a funny thing, aren’t they? I thought I would engineer any kind of situation to casually bump into him again—not that he would likely remember our little chance encounter over three decades ago—especially as it could be said we were colleagues in the art world, which I presumed would bestow me with some authority.
Even as I could feel myself blushing at the stalker-distance nearness of him, I did nothing and instead walked away. Some crushes are better left in a reverie that never loses its power to thrill.
Conspirational minds think alike
Not all my crushes are based on physical appeal. Some of my crushes have been intellectual crushes—men whose minds have fascinated me, whose presence sometimes intimidated me, but with whom I never shied from getting into a discussion of art, philosophy, or poetry.
I had a crush on a young academic who was doing his PhD in History at Cornell University. He was home for the summer doing some research at Ateneo de Manila University, where I was an undergraduate. We met through a friend of his who happened to be a former teacher of mine, and we’d chat every now and then by the entrance to Rizal Library.
I don’t remember who wrote to whom first, but a few months later, I received a postcard from Ithaca, New York. It had a black-and-white image of a woman in the snow by Imogen Cunningham. Seeing his name signed at the back made me catch my breath for a moment, touched that he had taken the time to write.
It would be many years before we would meet again, this time at dinner with mutual friends. My university-era crush thereafter gave way to deep admiration and respect, not to mention an enduring friendship with him and his wife, Lila Shahani, whose intellect was equally fierce.
We often got together with good friends whenever they were in town and took to dissecting the pressing political, cultural, and socio-economic issues of the day; we fancied ourselves “The Conspirators.” His analyses were always incisive; he had a way of drawing in pre- and post-colonial frameworks—not to mention world literature and the power of language—to understand the Filipino psyche amidst present-day realities. He wrote a book, for example, about former president Rodrigo Duterte, and the title encapsulated so pithily the dangerous conundrum that he was: “The Sovereign Trickster.”
In the age of digitization, emails and Viber replaced postcards. Our correspondence saw us commenting on various issues and exchanging articles we’d written. His, of course, were always thoroughly researched, with a tone that was authoritative but not pedantic, and infused with humanity.
The person behind the intellect
During the pandemic, I tapped him (and Lila) far too many times to be a panelist on the various webinars I moderated on behalf of the culturally shaped private members club, Manila House. To my surprise, he always accepted my invitations, notwithstanding the fact that he had his hands full with his own students at the University of Washington in Seattle, while coping with his own illness.
Together, we explored issues such as anti-Asian racism, the Black Lives Matter movement, and its impact on Filipinos. One webinar caught the attention of a US-based organization, NCTA: The Internet & Television Association, which asked me to organize a talk with him and another speaker for Asian Heritage Month in 2021. His presence at my webinars made me a more focused moderator.
He and Lila once guested on “Flipping the Narrative,” a podcast I co-host with Laura Verallo de Bertotto and Luis de Terry. We spoke about racism and colorism among Filipinos, and in a moment of pure Pinoy gold, at one point, Lila told him the rice was ready, and he excused himself to turn off the rice cooker. I loved how this brilliant intellectual worked in the world of ideas, yet lived very much in the everyday world.
The last time I saw him and Lila, he was frighteningly frail after a round of chemotherapy, but he insisted on coming to dinner at my home to see us—my daughters, myself, and two other “conspirators.” After he and Lila left, we wondered if this was the last time we’d see him. I worried for Lila; he was the abiding love of her life.
The next day, even in his weakened state, he messaged to thank me for dinner and apologized for his less-than-energetic state. “Post-infusion side effects,” he said, “I was just out of it and realized I should have just stayed home. But thanks for your patience and kindness.”
“You’re still sharper than any of us on our best day,” I wrote back. And I meant every word.
Vince Rafael passed away exactly two months later, five days after he turned 70. I will miss him.
