Listen to me carefully, you bunch of snobs. I’m going to talk to you about Elmer Borlongan (born in 1967), a Filipino artist you’re probably unaware of, too busy as you are chasing the latest trends in Western contemporary art. Here’s a painter who doesn’t bother with your pretentious theories on postmodern art and instead paints social reality with rare intensity.
Borlongan transforms the mundane into a striking visual experience, close to figurative expressionism. His figures with bald heads and almond-shaped eyes stare at us with unsettling intensity, as if to remind us of our own indifference to the human condition. Walter Benjamin spoke of the aura of an artwork; in Borlongan’s case, this aura emanates directly from the gazes he paints, creating a silent yet powerful dialogue with the viewer. His portraits are not flattering representations meant to glorify their subjects but testimonies to the human condition. As John Berger would have put it, these portraits don’t just show us what people look like but how they inhabit their world.
The recurring use of bald figures in his work, which began in 1993, is not merely a stylistic choice. It is a visual strategy that universalizes his subjects while paradoxically making them more specific. These bare heads become surfaces onto which the social and political tensions of contemporary Philippine society are projected. The eyes, a signature element of his style—large, expressive, often slightly distorted—serve as emotional focal points in his compositions. As Maurice Merleau-Ponty might have noted, the gaze in art is not just a visual element but a point of contact between different ways of being in the world. The gazes in Borlongan’s paintings challenge us, accuse us, and plead with us.
The elongated figures in his paintings, often disproportionate, are less reminiscent of classical canons of beauty and more of the expressionist distortions of Egon Schiele. But while Schiele explored individual psychological turmoil, Borlongan uses distortion to reveal a broader social truth. His bodies are silent witnesses to the inequalities and daily struggles of the Filipino people.
Take, for instance, his painting “Magtataho sa Tabing Dagat” (2024). A taho vendor (a Filipino tofu-based dessert) carries his aluminum containers on a bamboo pole, walking along the shore. The composition is remarkably spare, almost minimalist, yet every element—the slightly hunched posture, the determined gaze, the vast horizon—contributes to a poignant portrayal of the dignity of labor. It is what Pierre Bourdieu would call an “aesthetic of necessity,” where the artistic form itself becomes a vehicle for social critique.
In the streets of Mandaluyong where he grew up, Borlongan developed a particular sensitivity to society’s invisible people. His characters are not the glorified heroes of official history but the real protagonists of daily life: street vendors, fishermen, street children. There is something in his work that echoes Jacques Rancière’s idea of the distribution of the sensible—the notion that art can reshuffle what is visible and invisible in society.
His time with the Salingpusa artist collective in the 1990s deeply influenced his political engagement. His works from that period, such as “Rehimen” (1988), which earned him second prize in the Metrobank National Painting Competition, do not merely denounce but construct a visual language of resistance. One can see the influence of Mexican muralists, but reinterpreted through the lens of contemporary Philippine reality. Like Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco, Borlongan understands the importance of creating art that speaks directly to the people. Yet he adapts this tradition to the specificities of the Philippine context, crafting what Fredric Jameson would call a unique “geopolitical aesthetic”.
What is striking about Borlongan’s evolution is that he maintains stylistic consistency while continually expanding his scope. After moving to Zambales, his subjects diversified to include rural life, but his gaze remained as sharp as ever. He continues to paint what John Berger called “ways of seeing”—the ways our perception is conditioned by our social and cultural positioning.
His painting technique invites deep contemplation, revealing nuances that transcend mere appearances. Trained at age eleven by Fernando Sena, Borlongan mastered the fundamentals of painting early. Yet what is remarkable is how he uses this technical mastery not to create decorative works but to construct images that unsettle our visual comfort. His brushstrokes, seemingly simple, are calculated to maximize emotional impact. Unlike the dramatic use of chiaroscuro in the Baroque tradition, Borlongan often employs diffuse lighting that flattens pictorial space. This effect creates a sense of temporal suspension that heightens the emotional resonance of his scenes.
His chromatic palette, initially dominated by earthy and dark tones during his urban period, gradually lightened after his move to Zambales in 2002. This change is not merely aesthetic; it reflects a deeper transformation in his artistic vision. As Susan Sontag would have said, style is never innocent—it always conveys an ethical and political stance. His use of color evolved significantly over the years. The earthy and dark tones of his earlier works mirrored the harshness of urban life, while his brighter palette after moving to Zambales suggests new expressive possibilities. As Wassily Kandinsky noted, color is never merely decorative—it carries emotional and spiritual weight.
Consider “West Philippine Sea: Atin Ito” (2023), where a fisherman carries a massive blue marlin on his shoulders. The work transcends its narrative dimension to become a powerful commentary on Philippine maritime sovereignty, constantly threatened by China’s territorial ambitions. It is what Roland Barthes would call a “punctum” image—one that pricks, wounds, and demands attention.
The depiction of labor occupies a central place in his work. Whether in “Bigas, Hindi Bala” (2023), showing farmers working under the menacing hum of a military helicopter, or in “Sukli sa Fishballs” (2023), portraying a street vendor counting his change, Borlongan dignifies manual labor without romanticizing it. There is an echo here of Hannah Arendt’s thoughts on the human condition and the value of work.
His treatment of space is equally significant. The sparse, almost empty backgrounds create a dramatic tension with the foreground figures. This approach recalls what Michel Foucault called “heterotopias”—those other spaces that simultaneously reflect and contest society’s real spaces. In Borlongan’s paintings, pictorial space becomes a site of confrontation between the individual and the social forces that shape them.
The COVID-19 pandemic provided Borlongan with new subjects to explore. In his exhibition “When Time Stood Still” at Galerie Geraldine Banier in Paris, he captured the claustrophobic atmosphere of lockdown and the resilience of Filipinos during the crisis. Works such as “Time and Patience” and “Boxed In” reveal a new dimension to his art, exploring social isolation with heightened sensitivity.
Borlongan’s relationship with Philippine artistic tradition is complex. While he belongs to the lineage of social realism, he has created a unique visual language that transcends established categories. Unlike Fernando Amorsolo, who idealized rural Philippine life, Borlongan presents a more nuanced and critical view of social reality. His art echoes Theodor Adorno’s assertion that art must maintain a productive tension with the society it critiques.
His social engagement extends beyond his themes and is evident in his artistic practice. His work with ABAY (Artista ng Bayan) and later with Salingpusa reflects a conception of art as a tool for social transformation. This approach recalls Antonio Gramsci’s theories on the role of organic intellectuals in social change.
Borlongan’s transition to rural subjects after moving to Zambales has not diminished the critical force of his work. On the contrary, it has allowed him to expand his social critique to include the complex dynamics between city and countryside in contemporary Philippines. His rural landscapes, far from idyllic, are marked by the same social tensions as his urban scenes.
His depiction of children is particularly poignant. Whether playing or working, his children are never simply cute or picturesque. They carry in their bodies and gazes the weight of social inequalities. This reflects what Pierre Bourdieu would call the embodiment of social structures—the way material conditions literally shape bodies and behaviors.
The narrative dimension of his work is subtle but powerful. His paintings do not tell stories in the traditional sense but create what Walter Benjamin called “dialectical images”—moments where past and present converge in a critical constellation. Each painting becomes a microcosm of the broader social tensions running through Philippine society.
His rediscovery of printmaking during the pandemic adds a new dimension to his work. The specific qualities of this medium—its deep blacks, rough textures—allow him to explore his obsessions in a new way. This multimedia exploration recalls Rosalind Krauss’s emphasis on the “specificity of the medium” in contemporary art.
Borlongan’s relationship with modernist tradition is complex. While he employs certain formal strategies associated with modernism—distortion, flattened space—his art remains deeply rooted in social reality. It is what Terry Eagleton would call a form of “critical modernism” that refuses both pure avant-gardism and naïve realism.
Elmer Borlongan’s work reminds us that the most powerful art is not that which dazzles us with technical virtuosity or formal originality but that which forces us to see the world differently. In an art scene often dominated by the spectacular and the ephemeral, his unwavering commitment to social truth and human dignity is more necessary than ever.