LANDSCAPE By GEMMA CRUZ ARANETA HUNDREDS of thousands of brushstrokes is probably more accurate because the mural is the biggest ever painted in the Philippines by a Filipino artist. I am referring to Carlos Francisco, fondly called Botong, a native of Angono, Rizal, posthumously awarded the Order of National Artist for Visual Arts in 1996. In the same year, the mural, his most acclaimed work, was declared a National Cultural Treasure by the National Museum of the Filipino People. Former Manila Mayor Antonio J. Villegas (1962-1971) began his reign with a blaze of cultural nationalism: He was the Gatpuno. The first underpass, “Lagusnilad,” was his idea of urban planning. Thankfully, Plaza Lawton became Liwasang Bonifacio. He held office at the “Bulwagang Katipunan” which was in fact the ceremonial hall of the Manila City Hall. In 1968, he commissioned the now famous mural of Carlos (Botong) Francisco; it was known as “History of Manila” (Kasaysayan ng Maynila). From the entrance of the bulwagan of the Gatpuno, one is mesmerized by the wrap-around mural with the historic symbols of the City: The official seal is emblazoned on the palisades of Rajah Sulayman above which is a dazzling sun reminiscent of the Katipunan. A smiling Mayor Villegas,with his trademark mole, beams against a backdrop of social programs showered upon Manileños. I think he was the only mayor who held office with such pomp and circumstance; his successors preferred the more private spaces behind the Bulwagang Katipunan. After his untimely demise in the USA, Bulwagang Katipunan was named in his honor, and during the Centennial of our Independence, “History of Manila” the name of the mural became “Filipino Struggles in History.” The Centennial Commission was responsible for that change because the heroes and battle scenes depicted in Botong’s mural were used to illustrate myriad publications, posters, and collateral material for various conferences, seminars, and commemorations. In my humble opinion, it should have remained “History of Manila” because everything depicted in that mural occurred within the orbit of Manila. It does not highlight the First Philippine Republic even if that was the watershedof Filipino struggles because the seat of government had moved to Malolos, away from American cannon fire. However, Botong must have felt it would be wrong to ignore the fruit of the Revolution that began in Manila, so he painted a cameo scene of American troops marching in front of Barasoain church. It is at the obscure upper border of the mural, on top of scenes depicting the outbreak of the Philippine-American War. By 2007, during Mayor Alfredo S. Lim’s second round, Botong’s mural was in a precarious state of decrepitude. The portion about the British invasion had been scorched by a light bulb; creepy crawlies had chewed up bits and pieces. After every major typhoon, Rajah Sulayman and his relatives from across the Pasig would be hanging loose and the city engineer would hurriedly glue the portion with dabs of rugby. More threatening than the monsoon was a private restroom in a mezzanine right behind the mural wall. Be that as it may, Botong’s masterpiece was not only a conversation piece for entertaining the mayor’s official guests, it was, more importantly, a veritable didactic tool. The Bulwagang Villegas became the favorite destination of busloads of students from Manila and environs, better than going to a shopping mall, some of the teachers would whisper. At the outset, I gave history lectures illustrated by Botong’s expressive renditions of Sulayman, Balagtas, Gomburza, Rizal, and Bonifacio against a landscape of prodigious historical details. The mural was more dramatic and explicit than any power point presentation. Then, the young ladies of the Manila Tourism office asked me to write a script so they could take turns “lecturing,” “mag-mumural” is how they called it. In case of fire, what could we have done to save Botong’s mural? Divine Providence finally intervened. One morning in February 2013, I entered the ceremonial hall on my way to the office only to see one of the panels reduced to a crumpled heap perched on a diving wall. It happened to be the most iconic, the one with Katipuneros signing with their blood, and Bonifacio with arms outstretched like a crucified Christ, brandishing bolo and pistol, rallying everyone to arms. A few janitors were staring at the heap not knowing what to do. I called the National Museum director, Jeremy Morales Barnes, and in a stern authoritative voice, he said, “Do not touch it! I am going there right now.” He arrived in a flash with his team and special equipment. “Why don’t you detach the rest and have all 19 panels restored once and for all? “The museum needed a written permission from Mayor Lim who was in a meeting with some high-ranking officials. Because that was a national cultural emergency, I barged into his office (at the risk of losing my job) apologized for my rudeness, and asked the mayor to please sign the letter I had prepared. “When will it be finished?” He meant the restoration work. “As soon as possible, Sir. “ and I rushed out of the room, I did not dare say that it would take more than three years. ([email protected])