BLNC Facets: Christian Ray Villanueva

BLNC Facets : Pride in Everyday

Christian Ray Villanueva

CEBU

What is everyday life like as a queer person on your side of the country?

CRV: I recently got engaged, so the meaning of queer feels like it’s shifting for me. My partner is from Belgium, and I’ve always had this pull toward European art and culture. In my work, I always stress that art should transcend culture in some ways, but at the same time, there’s a responsibility to carry your roots with you.

I’ve been deeply immersed in my inner world lately. I work closely with my emotions and psychological language. Recently, I’ve been drawn to Jungian themes—the darker, shadowy, raw parts of life. I feel like a hound that’s out for blood, but also like I’m back in this quiet, formative period. It reminds me of being 17 again, when I wasn’t established as an artist yet. I feel like I’m still being shaped, still giving birth to myself in many ways.

I try to keep a routine. Breakfast is always one pancake, one egg, four pieces of bacon. For dinner, usually chicken teriyaki. I work in between. I don’t socialize much these days. I try to stay away from gallery openings and events. My life has become quiet, almost monastic. I only keep a few close friends around—the ones I can be silly with.

There was a time when my career was blooming, and I found myself constantly sharing, constantly giving. But I realized I was polishing my persona more than actually taking care of myself. These days, I find myself returning to fairytales. My favorite is The Wild Swans by Hans Christian Andersen. I relate to Elisa, silently sewing nettles in a cave to save her brothers. I even have this beautiful perfume with a swan on the back. It smells exactly like the story—ivy-like, rosy, melancholic. I try to write every day. I’ve been craving less of a professional life, and more of a real one.

Being queer already makes you feel like an outsider. Add being disabled on top of that, and you end up feeling like an alien everywhere you go.

When I was living in Negros, my hometown, I was always alone. My high school classmates had their own lives, and I poured myself into my art. In Cebu for college, it was more of the same. Solitude, work, my foundation, my career. But that quiet loneliness tied to my disability never really left me. I’ve always felt a little separated from the rest of society.

Art keeps me company. So do my friends. The creative life is lonely sometimes. I deal with depression and anxiety, but it doesn’t stop me from doing what I want to do. I love reading in the dark with a candle lit. I love cooking for friends, hosting small dinners. When everything feels quiet, Marie-Louise von Franz and the Moomin books keep me company.

Last year, some film students visited me at home to film a documentary about my life—my cancer journey. My fiancé was with me, which made it feel safe and familiar. Another time, a different group of students interviewed me in a nearby milk tea shop. These days, I prefer small spaces like that, quiet moments with people who actually care.

I’m currently on vacation with my family. I haven’t seen my mom in ten years, and being with her now has reminded me how important it is to have people around who love you not for your achievements, but for who you really are. My fiancé reminds me of that every day.

What would you like Filipinos to know about the LGBTQIA+ community where you are?

CRV: People often expect queerness to be loud—pride flags, parades, boldness. But for some of us, it looks different. I’ve always seen myself as more reclusive. The inner world feels just as real and important as the outer world. That’s something I’ve taken from my love of Jungian psychology.

There have been seasons of extroversion in my life, but right now is a season of deep introversion. I feel like a recluse, almost like a monk. I love my solitude. Being queer isn’t always about being loud, and I don’t mean that in a cheeky or dismissive way. I just think there’s a quiet kind of power in it too.

I haven’t been as active in queer circles lately—or any circles really. But I still see what’s happening around me. The queer community here is still fighting. It feels 50/50. We hear stories of queer kids, trans people being mistreated. I still struggle with fully coming out to certain people in my family.

We have a long way to go, and I think it starts with looking at the roots of all this—the systems that allow discrimination to stay hidden under the surface.

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