In a practice where tradition meets scientific inquiry, color becomes less of a fixed outcome and more of an evolving conversation between material, environment, and time. For Mariton Villanueva, founder of Himaya by Mariton Villanueva, botanical dyeing is not simply a craft rooted in heritage, but a living laboratory where experimentation and unpredictability shape every result. Her process begins with research. References like Gampol, a documentation of traditional Philippine dye plants, serve as an entry point, alongside independent exploration of dyeable flora found online and in nature. But research is only the beginning. The real work unfolds in the studio, where plant materials are tested against different fabrics, mordants are adjusted, temperatures are shifted, and timing is constantly refined. Each variable matters. A slight change in heat can alter a hue entirely. A different mordant can push a color toward something unexpected. Even the same plant may yield different results depending on when it was harvested or how it was processed. In this space, chemistry is not abstract—it is immediate and visible, expressed through pigment, fiber, and reaction. There is structure in the science, but there is also uncertainty that cannot be fully controlled. Rather than resisting this, Mariton embraces it. Unpredictability becomes part of the method, not a disruption to it. It keeps the practice responsive, reminding her that color is never static and never fully owned. On Working Independently and Building Toward Collaboration Operating as a one-woman studio under Himaya by Mariton Villanueva means moving through every stage of production, from sourcing materials to dyeing, sampling, construction, and creative direction. This level of involvement naturally shapes how decisions are made. Each choice is grounded in process. Material behavior, production timelines, and the realities of craftsmanship are always part of the equation. The work demands attention to detail at every step, and with that comes a deep understanding of how each part connects to the next. While the responsibility can be heavy at times, it also brings clarity. There is no separation between concept and execution. Everything is experienced firsthand, from the first immersion of fabric into dye to the final form of the garment. Still, this independence is not seen as a fixed condition. Collaboration is an essential part of her long-term vision. Mariton speaks about working with skilled artisans—particularly weavers and mananahi—as a natural extension of the practice. For her, textile work is not meant to exist in isolation. It thrives in shared environments where knowledge is exchanged and craftsmanship is collective. The goal is not to remain alone, but to grow into a more interconnected system of making—one where each contributor brings their own expertise into the process. On Responsible Practice Beyond the Aesthetic of Sustainability Natural dyeing is often framed through a romantic lens, associated with purity, tradition, and ecological harmony. But for someone working directly with both plant materials and chemical processes, the reality is more complex. Sustainability, in Mariton Villanueva’s practice through Himaya by Mariton Villanueva, is not defined by aesthetic ideals. It is defined by responsibility. Working with natural dyes does not automatically mean a process is free from impact. It requires careful consideration of sourcing, scale, and extraction. She emphasizes the importance of using locally available plants and being mindful of how much is harvested, recognizing that even natural resources can be depleted if handled without restraint. At the same time, she is clear that dyeing is still chemistry. Plant-based pigments interact with mordants and fibers through chemical reactions that must be understood and respected. Rather than framing natural dyeing as “pure,” she approaches it as a material system that requires both knowledge and accountability. For her, responsible production is not about achieving an idealized version of sustainability. It is about making informed decisions at every stage—working slowly, respecting materials, and engaging ethically with the people involved in production. It is a continuous process of awareness rather than a final state of perfection. In this way, Himaya by Mariton Villanueva challenges simplified narratives around craft and sustainability, offering instead a grounded perspective where experimentation, science, and responsibility exist in constant dialogue. Designer: Mariton Villanueva Photographer: Meinard Navato Makeup artist: Jana Dela Cruz Model: Zaira Yuki Midoro Instagram Handles: @vmariton @mpnavato @janafiedd @zairayukii

For the mind behind Viktor, leather has never been about excess. It is about permanence, protection, and identity. While the Manila-based label first earned recognition for its premium custom denim, it is through leather that the brand reveals its sharpest edge, transforming a material often associated with rebellion into something architectural, intimate, and deeply personal. Long before Viktor existed, fashion already played a defining role in his life. A graduate of University of Santo Tomaswith a degree in Mathematics, he initially built a career in graphic design and art direction. But outside office hours, another obsession quietly consumed him: collecting designer jeans, leather pieces, and garments that carried character through wear and construction. Eventually, that fascination evolved into action. “I realized I was spending most of my salary buying designer pieces,” he recalls. “So I thought, why not create my own?” That decision led him to leave his art direction role at an inflight magazine and establish Viktor, a brand now known for custom-fitted denim and expertly crafted leather jackets designed with both structure and longevity in mind. Unlike trend-driven labels that release collections at rapid speed, Viktor approaches design more like an ongoing study of form. Every release builds upon previous ideas through refinement rather than reinvention. Leather, in particular, has become one of the brand’s strongest design languages because of its ability to evolve alongside the wearer. For Viktor, leather is never static. It softens, creases, darkens, and records memory over time. Every scratch becomes part of the garment’s history. That relationship with material is rooted in his appreciation for tactility and construction. Much like an architect working with concrete, he views leather as raw material capable of both strength and elegance. He is less interested in decorative fashion and more drawn toward creating silhouettes that feel sculptural and lived-in. The influence of Tadao Ando becomes apparent in this approach. Much like Ando’s minimalist structures, Viktor’s leather pieces often rely on restraint and precision. Clean lines, controlled proportions, and subtle detailing allow the material itself to speak. This philosophy reached a striking new level in DYSTOPIAN BLUES, the collection presented during Manila Fashion Week. Inspired by the emotional atmosphere of Blade Runner, the collection imagined a future shaped by climate anxiety, urban decay, and survival. Leather became central to that vision. Oversized jackets, structured outerwear, and protective silhouettes transformed familiar garments into something almost armor-like. The pieces carried an industrial sharpness while remaining wearable, balancing futuristic tension with everyday practicality. Instead of relying on costume-like theatrics, Viktor grounded the collection in garments people could realistically inhabit, even within its dystopian imagination. “Clothes can serve as protection,” he explains. “Not just physically, but emotionally too.” That idea resonates deeply in the way Viktor constructs its leather garments. There is a quiet sense of security embedded into each piece, whether through the weight of the material, the precision of the fit, or the confidence it gives the wearer. The jackets feel less like seasonal fashion and more like personal armor shaped by movement and time. But Viktor’s exploration of leather also carries a deeper conversation about sustainability and craftsmanship. Alongside premium leather and Japanese denim, the brand experiments with locally sourced textiles and material innovation. For DYSTOPIAN BLUES, bamboo and piña fabrics were developed to mimic the appearance of denim while remaining lightweight and suitable for the Philippine climate. Leftover leather scraps from production were also repurposed into handcrafted floral brooches by assistant designer Will Mueco, transforming waste into objects of strange beauty. This balance between edge and responsibility reflects Viktor’s broader evolution. What began as a custom denim label has quietly expanded into a full bespoke apparel brand crafting premium jackets, shirts, and leather pieces for a growing audience seeking individuality over mass production. Yet despite its growing influence, the brand continues to move with restraint. There is no rush toward spectacle, only a steady refinement of craft. Perhaps that is Viktor’s true distinction. In a fashion landscape often driven by noise, the brand understands the power of material, silhouette, and patience. Leather, in Viktor’s hands, becomes more than fabric. It becomes memory. Protection. Confidence. A second skin shaped by the person wearing it. And like all things made with intention, it only becomes more beautiful with time. Viktor Manila Creative Direction: @linaw._____ Style: @fasyonloca Mua: @phray_payek @newnextmodels.ph @brandi_clmnt @thelorenruiz @angxlz.xny @rvalera_9

Photography and Creative Direction : Jobo Nacpil (@jobonacpil) Grooming : Myckee Arcano (@myckeearcano) Model : Ross (@rossmrtnz) of Muse Men Philippines (@musemenphilippines) (@musemnla) Shot at Zoomburst Studios (@zoomburst)

There’s a certain kind of magic that happens when fashion stops being just about clothing and starts becoming a language. In Imaginarium: Tales from the Land and Sea , that language is deeply personal, quietly powerful, and unmistakably Filipino. Set to unfold at the UP IBG-KAL Theater, Season 2 of Imaginarium brings together a new generation of designers who aren’t interested in following the usual path. Instead, they build worlds—ones shaped by memory, identity, and transformation. The result is a collective narrative where land and sea are not just inspirations, but metaphors for growth, tension, and becoming. At its core, Imaginarium feels less like a traditional fashion show and more like a living archive of stories. Each collection carries its own emotional weight, yet together they form something cohesive—a reflection of where Filipino fashion is headed, and who is shaping it. Sustainability runs through many of the works, but not in a way that feels forced or performative. Designers like JJ Montecalvo and Renegade Limpin treat discarded materials as starting points for reinvention, turning scraps into pieces that feel intentional and alive. It’s less about making a statement and more about showing what’s possible when creativity meets responsibility. There’s also a strong sense of place woven into the collections. Basil Malicsi’s Bakasyon captures the ease and warmth of island life, translating the feeling of sun, movement, and escape into soft silhouettes and breathable forms. In contrast, Fern Garcia’s haunting reinterpretation of The Little Mermaid leans into longing and identity, where structure and fluidity clash in a story of desire and restraint. Other designers take a more introspective route. Mario Santos focuses on the quiet act of making—on the unseen labor behind each piece—while Thea Balume reworks tradition through tension, blending Filipiniana references with raw denim and lace. These are not just aesthetic choices; they’re reflections of process, emotion, and personal history. What stands out most is how each designer approaches storytelling differently. Some are bold and expressive, others restrained and subtle, but none feel disconnected. There’s a shared understanding that fashion can hold meaning beyond the surface—that garments can carry memory, conflict, even vulnerability. Under the direction of John Carlo Pagunaling, the show extends beyond clothing into a full visual experience. With a strong creative team supporting everything from scenography to styling, Imaginarium builds an environment where each piece can exist as part of something larger. More than anything, Imaginarium is about visibility. It creates space for emerging designers to be seen—not just as talents to watch, but as voices already shaping the conversation. It challenges the idea that innovation only comes from established names, proving instead that some of the most compelling work is happening right now, at the edges. In Tales from the Land and Sea , imagination isn’t treated as an escape. It’s a tool. A way to process, to question, and to create something honest. And in that honesty, the future of fashion starts to take form.

In the quiet space between doubt and devotion, there’s a moment every creator faces—the point where something deeply personal begins to take shape in the world. For Chef Lordfer Lalicon, that moment wasn’t defined by certainty, but by questions that carried the weight of culture, identity, and responsibility. Before the recognition, before the Michelin nod, there was only the fear of whether Filipino food—his Filipino food—would be understood, accepted, and respected in spaces that had long overlooked it. This edition of FACETS traces a story shaped not just by ambition, but by inheritance. One that moves through pop-ups and pressure, through the quiet burden of representation that many Filipinos carry long before they are ever asked to speak for it. It’s a journey of translating culture without diluting it, of holding onto what is sacred while opening doors for others to understand. At the center of it all is KAYA—a name that means “to be able,” but more importantly, a reminder: kaya natin . We can do it. Built on family, sustained by community, and grounded in values that go beyond the kitchen, KAYA is more than a restaurant. It is a living expression of memory, sacrifice, and love. In this conversation, we look beyond the accolades and into the emotional architecture of building something that carries both legacy and longing. From fatherhood to food, from exhaustion to pride, this is a portrait of Chef Lordfer Lalicon learning to stand fully in his story—without apology, without translation, and without losing himself along the way. Before Kaya had a name, a room, or recognition, what were you most afraid of when you decided to build something of your own?  Running a restaurant as both the owner and the chef is an immense responsibility.  I truly thought to myself, "Am I capable of representing Filipino food this way, for my people, for my family?"  How will people respond to this style of Filipino restaurant?? Being Filipino often means growing up invisible, then suddenly being asked to represent an entire culture. When did you first feel that weight in your career?  I think I first felt the weight of an entire culture when we did Kaya pop-ups.  I had a Japanese Omakase restaurant and we started doing these small dinners in a another small room we had.  We invited guests, regulars, Filipinos, and non-Filipinos.  While creating menus and planning their experiences I kept asking myself, "Is this Filipino enough?"  How am I going to represent what it means to be a Filipino to me?"    Many people know nothing of Filipino food, yet alone eat a fine-dining Filipino meal. Was there ever a moment when you questioned whether Filipino food belonged in fine dining spaces like Michelin kitchens? What did that doubt sound like in your head? No, I never questioned if Filipino food belonged.  Filipino food is so delicious! It is dynamic, unique, and possesses depth, history and variety. All I think about is how to best present our delicious food.   How am  I going to uplift and educate our amazing culture?  People just don't know what they are missing until you give it to them in a way they can understand. Kaya is named after your daughter. When service gets hard and the pressure is heavy, how does that name ground you?  Every day during our pre-service, we go over our day, roles and responsibilities, and we end it with everyone putting their hands in and saying "KAYAAAA NATIN."This is a reminder that "We can do it," and Kaya the restaurant is all of ours.  We have a responsibility to our Ancestors and supporters to work through the hardship and pressure, to do our best,  because "KAYA NATIN." How did becoming a father change the way you think about legacy, not just as a chef, but as a Filipino man? Being a father changed everything.  Your children represent you. As a Filipino Chef restaurant owner, my children need to be taught their culture, food and what it means to carry on the traditions of our beautiful Filipino culture.    I hope I can instill all the values that I have learned from my parents.  Being a parent also made me softer and more understanding.  I have learned that we are all still children, learning, experiencing pain, and searching for our meaning, our 'why,' and how to proceed with life.  I have become much more patient and understand that how people follow depends on how you lead.  Filipino food is rooted in care, generosity, and survival. How do those values show up in the way you lead your kitchen, especially on difficult days?  Everyone is a person.  Everyone of our people is family.   We ensure they understand the importance of family and how we lift each other up.  We have built a work culture under the Values of Pamilya, Kapwa + Bayanihan, Utang Na Loob, and Mapanlikha.  On difficult days, I focus on using these values to lead in my decision making.  Leading with family in mind, lifting them up when they need me,  understanding their value as a team member and lastly being creative, and forward thinking when solving issues or problems.   When Kaya earned Michelin recognition, what was the first emotion you felt, and what emotion surprised you afterward?  I felt a abundant amount of Joy for my team and family.  This recognition is thanks to family, friends, my team and a bunch of sweat, blood, and tears!  Success can be loud, but exhaustion is quiet. What parts of this journey have taken the biggest emotional toll on you?  I think constant comparison of those around you [is the issue].  What should you be doing and what should you not be doing?  The toll of constantly questioning whether you are doing enough.  Opening a business is truly one of the most difficult things.  Keeping the restaurant open—paying bills, staff, insurance, rent, etc.—sometimes seems impossible.  Balancing the conflict between money and creativity is quite challenging. As a Filipino cooking in America, do you ever feel like you’re constantly translating yourself? How do you protect the parts of your culture that don’t need explaining?  I believe it's ok to explain your culture in general.  Part of living in community with others is helping them understand who you are and where you are from.  Kaya is our way of introducing who we Filipinos are and helping people love our culture. There’s pride in being seen, but also pressure to get it right. How do you personally navigate representing Filipino cuisine on a global stage without losing yourself?  I think you have to know really who you are, where you come from, and what you stand for. Luckily surrounded by all this!  My beautiful Filipino wife and 3 children.  I live in a multigenerational home with my wife's parents, and my parents live next to the restaurant.  My community is Filipino. I study, I learn as much as I can and I try to be 100% myself.  I want my kids to live like this, so I make sure I lead by example. What sacrifices have people not seen behind Kaya’s success, especially from your family?  Well, like I said I am supported by my wife and both sets of parents.  Without their help I could never have opened Kaya.  Their support is everything to me.  They take care of the kids when I work late, which is constantly.  I put my children to sleep only one or two nights a week...  Is there a dish at Kaya that feels deeply personal, one that carries memory, longing, or even grief? Kare Kare has been on the menu since we opened, and it is our top-selling dish besides lumpia.  Kare Kare is the first Filipino dish I taught myself how to make.  When I was 21, I met this beautiful girl Julie, I read, asked my parents and watched some videos on how to cook Kare - kare.  She said this was her favorite dish.  It turned out great, we had a wonderful first date in my dinky apartment.  That moment in time changed my life forever, that beautiful woman is now my wife and the mother of our three children: Kayah, Masayah and Hirayah.    On nights when the dining room is full and expectations are high, what keeps you emotionally present rather than just pushing through service?  I love seeing people happily enjoying our food.  This is why I love being a chef. Watching people have a good time at Kaya keeps me present and wanting to serve them more. Who were you cooking for before the awards, before Michelin, before the headlines? Are you still cooking for them now?  I have always cooked for my family.  I will cook for them now and forever.   Filipino culture teaches resilience, but rarely rest. How are you learning to take care of yourself within an industry that celebrates burnout?  Umm.. This is a hard question.  I believe burnout is a choice.  It means you are not taking care of your needs, health, thoughts, and happiness.  Chefs often overwork because working is what they do best.  We truly must learn to reflect on how to live  a more balanced life by taking care of our minds, bodies and souls.  This can be quite challenging though.  There is no school on how to run a kitchen, a restaurant, a business and a family all at once.  I would say constantly controlling and changing your priorities daily will help in not having burnout. If your younger self, the Filipino kid dreaming quietly, walked into Kaya today, what do you think he would feel? Young me would be proud and amazed.  Kaya is truly special, I still walk in and feel so blessed to be where I am. What does Kaya represent emotionally for you now, beyond being a restaurant? Kaya is my legacy.  Kaya truly represents me and how I want the world to see me and what I want to provide to the world. When your daughter grows older and looks back at your work, what do you hope she understands about why you chose this path? I hope she understands what Kaya means to her culture and why I worked so hard to build it.  I hope she can understand hard work, sacrifice, and sucess and loving what you do.  I hope she takes all the lessons I teach her and learns how passion and commitment lead to happiness. I hope she sees my path and understands that life is beautiful,  waking up everyday, showing up, trying your best and laying everything on the line is a privilege and a choice.  I hope she can understand that this path has given us such a rich life, filled with love, amazing people, and sustenance.  What does being Filipino mean to you today, after everything you’ve built and everything you’ve carried? I am so proud to be Filipino.  To see the growth in our communities across the world and even in the Philippines.  I see the Michelin stars and all the talented Filipinos finally getting recognition.  We have such a beautiful, diverse palette of art, food and culture.  All the islands, all the countries and yet we stay connected.  We impose our flavors and style on different artistic and professional landscapes.  I love how our strong culture is embedded in our DNA and everything we touch gets a little kiss of Filipinoness... Finally, if your story were reduced to one feeling served on a plate, what would that feeling be, and why?  If my story were reduced to one feeling served on a plate, it would be "Love."   I have always believed that God is Love and I feel that I do everything through God.  God has blessed me and my duty is displayed through the work I do at Kaya.  Every day I approach Kaya with Love and I hope people can feel this when they sit at our table.

Recognition often marks a milestone, but for Kathleen Liechtenstein, it also signals a renewed responsibility. Recently named among the Most Influential Filipina Women in the World  by the Filipina Women's Network, the president of Ballet Philippines views the honor not as a personal accolade, but as affirmation of a larger mission: using the arts to uplift communities, open doors, and redefine who ballet is for. For Liechtenstein, the recognition carries deep meaning. On a personal level, she describes it as a celebration of resilience, passion, and the enduring belief that leadership should always be tied to service. Professionally, it reinforces her commitment to expanding the reach of ballet across the country. Under her leadership, Ballet Philippines continues to pursue initiatives that bring dance beyond the traditional theater stage and into communities that rarely have access to the arts. Among the programs closest to her heart is Ballet Brigade , the company’s outreach initiative that introduces ballet to indigenous communities across the Philippines. Through this program, Ballet Philippines has worked with communities such as the Kalinga in Tabuk, the Aeta in Zambales, the Ivatan in Batanes, and the T’boli in Lake Sebu, among many others. The program offers young people an opportunity to experience ballet while encouraging them to embrace their own cultural heritage. Rather than replacing tradition, the goal is to expand it. For Liechtenstein, ballet becomes a bridge—an art form that can coexist with indigenous storytelling and movement. Each visit, each workshop, and each performance becomes a moment of exchange where culture, creativity, and curiosity meet. “It reminds us of the true essence of dance,” she shares. “Not just as an art form, but as a means of learning, self-empowerment, and bringing people together.” Another initiative, Men in Uniform , highlights ballet’s ability to reach audiences outside the usual arts circles. Through special performances and collaborations, Ballet Philippines has shared the beauty of dance with members of the Armed Forces of the Philippines and the Philippine Navy, offering moments of joy and reflection through movement and music. As president of Ballet Philippines, Liechtenstein approaches leadership with a dual focus: protecting the discipline’s classical roots while pushing the boundaries of what ballet can be in a modern Filipino context. She acknowledges that ballet has long carried the perception of being an elite art form. Changing that perception, she believes, requires both innovation and accessibility. This means bringing ballet into schools, underserved communities, and spaces where the arts have traditionally been absent. At the same time, the company continues to produce world-class performances that celebrate classical technique while incorporating contemporary Filipino narratives, choreography, and design. The balance between tradition and modernity is intentional. For Liechtenstein, honoring ballet’s classical heritage does not mean remaining static. Instead, it means allowing the form to evolve alongside the culture that surrounds it. Women’s leadership in the arts has also been central to her work. While progress has been made, she recognizes that barriers still exist, particularly in fields historically dominated by male leadership. Coming from a background in business and design, stepping into a leadership role within a traditional ballet company meant earning credibility in a space where artistic authority often comes from within the dance world itself. Rather than viewing this as a limitation, Liechtenstein leaned into what she could bring: strategic thinking, innovation, and a deep respect for the art form. The result has been a leadership style that blends creative vision with long-term planning—one that prioritizes sustainability for both artists and institutions. Empowering young women remains a central focus. Through Ballet Brigade and other outreach efforts, Ballet Philippines provides opportunities for young girls who may never have imagined themselves inside a theater or dance studio. For Liechtenstein, seeing a child experience ballet for the first time—whether watching a performance or taking their first tentative steps in class—captures the true value of the work. Dance, she believes, can also play a meaningful role in larger conversations around gender equality. Ballet Philippines has explored this through productions such as Limang Daan  and Ang Panaginip , works that celebrate Filipina strength, resilience, and collective dreams. Premiering these productions during International Women’s Month underscores the company’s commitment to highlighting women’s stories on stage. Behind Liechtenstein’s passion for the arts are personal influences that shaped her early imagination. Her grandmother first introduced her to the world of music and opera, often humming melodies from Lucia di Lammermoor around the house. Years later, hearing the opera performed live at Teatro alla Scala felt like a full-circle moment, connecting childhood memories to the grandeur of the stage. Her mother nurtured that creativity in other ways—bringing home illustrated classics that sparked a lifelong love for storytelling, books, and aesthetics. These early influences continue to shape the way Liechtenstein approaches art today: as something both deeply personal and widely shared. Looking ahead, her vision for Ballet Philippines is ambitious. She hopes to expand Ballet Brigade further, reaching more communities and inspiring a new generation of Filipino dancers. At the same time, she wants the company to elevate its technical training and artistic education, ensuring dancers develop not only physical mastery but also a deep understanding of music, history, design, and performance. The long-term goal is clear: for Ballet Philippines to become a defining voice for ballet in Southeast Asia. But beyond institutional success, Liechtenstein’s vision also includes strengthening the role of artists—particularly women—in shaping cultural policy and representation. She believes that more artists should eventually step into positions where they can influence legislation and advocate for the creative sector. When artists have a voice in policymaking, she says, the arts gain the protection, understanding, and support they deserve. For young women hoping to lead in the arts, her advice is simple but powerful: pursue passion with courage and purpose. Because when leadership is guided by purpose, the impact reaches far beyond the stage.

In Pangasinan, where the land itself tells stories through salt, life moves to a rhythm shaped by sun, wind, and patience. For Roda Ignacio, that rhythm began early. The salt farms were not just part of her surroundings, they were her first understanding of the world. As a child, she watched hands carve livelihood out of seawater, learning that behind something as ordinary as salt is a life built on sacrifice, discipline, and care. “To many, salt is just a seasoning,” she shares. “For us, it’s life itself.” That life is deeply personal. Each grain carries the memory of her father’s labor, the risks he took to secure land for their family, and the quiet determination that sustained them. What she inherited is more than responsibility. It is a legacy she now carries forward, rooted in both gratitude and pride. Pangasinan, whose name literally means “where salt is made,” is not just a place Roda calls home. It is part of her identity. It shaped her understanding of culture, resilience, and belonging. “This is where I was formed,” she says. “Not just by the work, but by the values that came with it.” For her, the story of salt farming is also a story of people who remain unseen, despite sustaining entire communities. There is a tendency to romanticize rural life, to reduce it to quiet landscapes and simplicity. But Roda knows better. Life in the asinan demands patience that cannot be rushed. Salt forms only when nature allows it. Some days, the rain erases hours of labor, and the only choice is to begin again. It is here that she learned resilience, not as a concept, but as a way of life. “Simplicity does not mean ease,” she says. “It means showing up every day, no matter what.” Of all the roles she carries today, it is motherhood that feels most instinctive. She speaks of it with the same reverence she gives the land. Like tending a salt farm, it requires attention, endurance, and an understanding that the most important work often goes unseen. It has shifted her perspective, deepening her sense of patience and reshaping what truly matters. But Roda’s story does not end in the fields. Before returning to the farm, she found another kind of stage. As a theater actress, she discovered a different way of telling stories, one that allowed her to translate lived experience into movement, voice, and emotion. Acting was never just a passion. It became a language. “It was how I expressed not just stories, but parts of myself,” she reflects. Theater also taught her something that stayed long after the curtain fell: connection. On stage, no one stands alone. Every performance depends on trust, awareness, and shared energy. Offstage, that truth shaped how she understands womanhood. Strength, she believes, is not in standing apart, but in lifting others alongside you. There was a time when her days were defined by movement. Living in Baguio, she balanced teaching, theater, and preparation for board exams, traveling back and forth to Alaminos City with a singular goal: to bring theater back to her hometown. It was a period marked by exhaustion, but also by purpose. “Ambition and sacrifice make sense when they come from passion,” she says. Even showing up felt like a contribution. One role remains close to her heart: her performance in Alamat ng Sandaang Pulo , where she played both narrator and the older version of the main character. It was her first major role, taken on during one of the most demanding periods of her life. The pressure was overwhelming. There were moments she wanted to give up. But one line stayed with her: The show must go on.  And it did. Today, that stage feels distant, but not lost. After giving birth, Roda stepped away from acting, entering a different kind of performance, one without scripts or rehearsals. Motherhood reshaped her relationship with her craft, deepening her emotional awareness and grounding her in a new kind of presence. “I value every moment differently now,” she says. “Time feels more meaningful.” This pause, often misunderstood, is something she has come to define on her own terms. Progress, for her, is no longer measured by movement forward in a career, but by presence. By choosing to be where she is needed most. By helping sustain her family’s livelihood. By honoring where she comes from. “Career can wait,” she says simply. “But being a mother can’t.” And still, the artist in her remains. Walking through the salt beds under the heat of the sun, she sometimes feels the echo of stage lights. The rhythm is familiar. The focus, the intention, the awareness that every action matters. Only now, the audience has changed. It is her family, her community, the people whose lives are touched by the work she helps continue. The sun becomes her spotlight. The wind, her orchestra. Each harvest, a quiet performance shaped by care and patience. Creativity, she has learned, does not disappear when the stage is gone. It simply finds new forms. In daily routines, in the movement of people, in the stillness of early mornings and the glow of sunset, she continues to imagine, to feel, to create. Even social media becomes an extension of that expression, a way to share the life she now lives, simple but deeply meaningful. In the context of Women’s Month, Roda’s definition of empowerment feels grounded and clear. It is not about recognition or applause. It is about fully inhabiting every role she carries, with humility and pride. It is in the act of nurturing, teaching, continuing, and remembering. “Real stories are not only performed,” she says. “They are lived.” She is also aware of the stories that remain untold. Rural women, she points out, are often missing from conversations about modern womanhood. Yet their lives are filled with strength, skill, and quiet endurance. They rise early, work under unforgiving conditions, care for their families, and preserve traditions that sustain entire communities. “These stories deserve to be seen,” she says. For Roda, strength is not loud. It is steady. It is found in repetition, in sacrifice, in showing up day after day. It is the kind of strength that builds lives, even when no one is watching. If she were to return to the stage now, she knows exactly what role she would choose. Not a character imagined, but a life already lived. A mother, a daughter, a teacher, a woman shaped by land and legacy. A story made of small sacrifices and quiet moments, told with honesty. She would call it Tasik . In salt farming, tasik  is the delicate process of letting seawater flow into the beds after each harvest, preparing for what comes next. Too little, and the work suffers. Too much, and the yield is lost. It is a balance that requires attention, patience, and understanding. For Roda Ignacio, tasik  is more than a method. It is a way of living. A reminder that life, like the land, asks for balance. That every season prepares you for the next. And that even in stillness, something is always taking shape.

Photography by: Aileen Wang

In a digital world that often pushes creators toward trends and quick visibility, Cheska Torres Ibasan chooses a quieter path—one rooted in reflection, cultural memory, and the layered realities of Filipino identity. Her work moves through the spaces in between: between softness and strength, heritage and reinvention, solitude and community. Rather than trying to define what it means to be Filipino in a single frame, she leans into the complexity of it, allowing contradiction, tenderness, and truth to exist side by side. Through storytelling, design, and her fashion line KADIWA The Label , Ibasan explores how culture lives in everyday gestures, inherited values, and the subtle moments that often go unnoticed. Her perspective is shaped by lived experience—from navigating identity within the diaspora to reexamining faith, belonging, and the quiet power of collective care. In this conversation with BLNC Magazine , she reflects on the roots that ground her work, the communities that shaped her voice, and why embracing ambiguity may be the most honest way to understand Filipino identity today. Your content feels deeply rooted in Filipino identity. What parts of who you are show up most naturally when you create? I come from a place where survival and imagination lived side by side, so what shows up most naturally in my work is truth. Being Filipino means holding joy and struggle at the same time, and I think that duality shapes my voice. I’m drawn to nuance, to honoring softness and strength together, and to creating space for stories that don’t always get centered. I also gravitate towards complexity: the quiet moments, the contradictions, the tenderness that exist alongside ambition or pressure. I bring a lot of emotional intuition into my work, and I think that comes from listening—listening to the women in my life, to inherited stories, to what it means to belong and still feel like you’re defining yourself. So when I create, I’m not trying to represent everything about being Filipino perfectly; I’m just trying to be truthful. And I believe that honesty is what allows cultural identity—any cultural identity—to shine through naturally. Growing up Filipino shapes the way we move through the world. What values or experiences from your upbringing continue to guide you today? For a long time, I took pride in not asking for help—being self-sufficient, keeping things moving on my own, proving that I could carry the weight without leaning on anyone else. It felt like strength. But over time, I began to understand that what I’d grown up around was something deeper: bayanihan . Not independence at all costs, but collective care. Learning to accept help taught me humility and trust. It reminded me that resilience doesn’t always look like doing everything alone; sometimes it looks like letting yourself be held by a community that genuinely wants to see you win. That value stays with me now. It shapes how I show up for others, how I ask for support when I need it, and how I measure success—not by how much I can endure alone, but by how well we move forward together. A lot of your work highlights quiet, everyday moments. Why are these small details important to you when telling Filipino stories? These organic, quiet, everyday moments matter deeply in Filipino storytelling because so much of Filipino life exists in the in-between—the pauses, the routines, the things that don’t announce themselves as dramatic but carry vastness. Quietness doesn’t mean silence; it’s a kind of stillness, a way of  just being . You can’t think of Southeast Asia without the Philippines coming to mind, and yet for many in the diaspora, we’re often told we’re not Southeast Asian enough, not even Asian enough. Those small, intimate moments become a way of asserting presence—of saying we are here , even when our identities are questioned or overlooked. When I created my fashion line — KADIWA The Label — the brand wasn’t immediately legible as “Filipino.” People only recognized it through the product descriptions and infographics I created for each piece. That experience reminded me that so much of who we are exist in nature, in practices, and in the industrialized objects we encounter every day. Often, the response was, “I didn’t know this was Filipino,”  or “We have that in our culture too.” While I believe we are unique in our own way, there is something powerful about that shared recognition. Our stillness—our quiet presence—is not absence. It’s continuity. In a digital space that often favors global trends, how do you stay grounded in your own cultural perspective? Cultures have always driven trends—even when they aren’t credited for it. So much of what’s considered “global” today is rooted in specific communities, from music shaped by Black cultures to clothing and silhouettes woven through different Black and brown cultural histories. Remembering that helps me stay grounded.  In a digital space that moves quickly and often flattens context, I try to stay connected to that origin point. I don’t feel pressure to chase what’s popular because I know that cultural specificity is what gives trends their longevity in the first place. By honouring where ideas come from—especially my own—I’m not stepping outside the conversation. I’m participating in it honestly. What does Filipino identity mean to you now, compared to how you understood it when you were younger? When I was younger, Filipino identity felt like a list I had to memorize and perform correctly. It was manners, gestures of respect, accents softened or sharpened depending on who was listening. It was something inherited but also something fragile—easy to “lose” if you strayed too far, spoke the wrong way, wanted the wrong things. I understood it as obligation more than choice. Now it feels less like a checklist and more like a conversation I’m still navigating. Filipino identity has become expansive and unfinished. It lives in contradiction: pride and grief, humor and rage, intimacy and distance. I see it not just in traditions preserved, but in the ways we adapt, survive, and rediscover. It’s in migration and longing, in the ache of loving a country that has failed you and still shapes you. I no longer think of it as something I owe purity to, but something I’m in relationship with—something that changes as I do. If younger me wanted certainty about being Filipino the right way, current me is more comfortable with ambiguity. Being Filipino now means holding history without being trapped by it, honoring inheritance while interrogating it, and allowing softness where I was once taught endurance was the only virtue. Has there been a moment when you felt especially proud to be Filipino, either through your work or a personal experience? I first felt proud to be Filipino in a way that was both fragile and fierce during my undergraduate years at UC Berkeley, where I was part of only 3.4% of students who identified as Filipino. Being in that small number made me notice how often our stories were overlooked, and how Filipino experiences don’t fit neatly into the “model minority” narrative applied to other Asian groups.  Back then, pride came quietly, in simply existing fully, even when no one expected us to be visible. Today, that quiet pride has a new shape through KADIWA The Label. Bringing Filipino fashion onto a global stage is both humbling and exhilarating—it’s a way of making our creativity, our heritage, and our stories felt beyond the communities that know them best. I hope that in sharing this work, others—especially Black and brown women—can see themselves reflected, empowered, and reminded that claiming space is a beautiful radical act. For me, moving forward, pride is no longer just about surviving visibility; it’s about insisting on presence, honoring ancestry, and showing that Filipino identity, in all its nuance, has a place in the world. How do family, community, and faith influence the way you see the world and express yourself? Family, community, and faith are not separate threads for me—they’re braided, and faith in particular is the one I’ve had to slowly, deliberately unlearn and re-learn. Growing up Filipino and Christian, faith was inseparable from family loyalty and communal belonging. God was introduced to me through hierarchy: elders, priests, and authority. Love was often framed as sacrifice without consent, and holiness as silence. For a long time, that shaped how I saw the world—I learned to endure before I learned to discern, to spiritualize suffering instead of naming injustice. Decolonizing my faith has been integral to my journey because Christianity, as I received it, was never neutral. It arrived wrapped in colonial power and moral control, even as it taught me language for hope, compassion, and transcendence. To remain Christian without interrogation would have meant accepting Jesus as someone who looked too much like an empire that demanded my compliance more than my wholeness. Decolonization, for me, is not abandoning faith but rescuing it—returning to Jesus who stands with the oppressed rather than sanctifying their pain, and reclaiming spirituality as relational, embodied, and liberatory. This reimagined faith changes how I move through the world. It makes me attentive to power, suspicious of narratives that glorify suffering, and committed to joy as a form of resistance. As a Filipino and a Christian, I now see my expression—my questions, my tenderness, my refusal to shrink—as sacred. Faith no longer disciplines me into obedience; it invites me into responsibility: to my people, to my history, and to a God who is not threatened by my yearning for more or my intellect. Building something like KADIWA came from a personal place. What did creating it teach you about yourself beyond business or creativity? Creating KADIWA The Label taught me that my impulse to build has always been about repair. Long before it was a brand or a concept, it was a response to fracture—to the feeling that so much of what I loved about being Filipino existed in fragments: memory without infrastructure, care without visibility, talent without protection. I learned that I don’t create because I’m confident; I create because I’m yearning for coherence. Building became a way of asking, what would it look like to belong on our own terms? Beyond business or creativity, KADIWA The Label revealed how deeply relational fashion is to me. I’m not motivated by scale as much as I am by intimacy—by trust, by shared language, by the quiet recognition of seeing yourself reflected in something made with care. It taught me that leadership is less about direction and more about stewardship: holding space, translating between worlds, protecting softness in systems that reward extraction.  KADIWA The Label taught me that I carry both the ache of inheritance and the courage to reimagine it—that I am shaped by histories of survival, but not limited to them. In building it, I learned that fashion is an extension of my values, and that my truest measure of success is not growth or recognition, but whether what I build feels honest, communal, and alive. Who or what shaped your understanding of heritage and belonging while growing up? My mom shaped my understanding of heritage and belonging in ways both quiet and profound. She was the living archive of our family’s stories, rituals, and resilience—each meal she cooked, each lullaby she hummed, each memory she recalled became a thread connecting me to a lineage I could touch and taste. Through her, I learned that heritage isn’t just history or tradition—it’s a language of persistence that must be spoken, or it risks disappearing. She also taught me that the harsh truth of belonging is that it is not automatic, but a challenge. Even in her imperfections, she embodied the tension of belonging: how to honor the past while claiming agency over the present. I learned to carry this lesson with me everywhere—from navigating corporate tech, where I present myself professionally without erasing my identity, to moving through social spaces with grace while fully embodying all my identities. In essence, my mom didn’t just give me heritage—she gave me a template for inhabiting it fully, thoughtfully, and with a love that is both anchored and expansive. When people engage with your content, what do you hope they feel or recognize about Filipino life and identity? When people engage with my content, I hope they feel the fullness and expansiveness of Filipino life and identity—not as something exclusive, but as something that resonates across communities. Filipino identity, for me, is rooted in radical joy, togetherness, creativity, and I want those values to be visible in ways that others can recognize and connect with. Seeing KADIWA The Label take up space in fashion, for example, can be empowering not just for Filipinos but for many women of color who are navigating spaces that haven’t always recognized them. I want people to feel that presence matters—that culture, heritage, and identity are powerful when expressed unapologetically, and that claiming space is itself an act of visibility and affirmation. Ultimately, I hope people recognize that what is distinctly Filipino can also be universally resonant: it can inspire pride, spark curiosity, and create connections across lines of difference.

Women are often described as the “light of the home”—a phrase meant to embody the nurturing qualities of a mother. But beyond the domestic sphere, women also illuminate communities, spaces, and creative ecosystems that they inhabit. They not only keep things together; they initiate, build, and transform. Maryrose Gisbert My Love 16x25in Soft Pastel on Paper 202 Lumière, derived from the French word for “light,” expands this understanding. The exhibition positions women not as symbolic sources of warmth alone, but as active forces whose expression shapes cultural direction. Light is an element that reveals what is sometimes overlooked, illuminating crevices that would not have been seen  without it. True enough, in many creative communities, women function as anchors and accelerators, organizing initiatives, sustaining collaborations, mentoring peers, and producing work that reframes inherited narratives—just like light illuminating a  dark room. Their labor, both seen and unseen, contributes to the vitality of the whole creative sphere. Their impact is not peripheral. It is structural. Nanette Villanueva Held, Not Still 18x25in Charcoal and Graphite on Paper 2026  Nanette Villanueva Weight of Listening 16x20in Charcoal and Graphite on Paper 2026  Across different media and visual languages, the exhibition affirms that women illuminate more than intimate spaces—They illuminate public discourse, creative risk, and different possibilities. Their work does not simply occupy walls—it sparks dialogue in each glance made towards the walls that hold these canvases. Nova Lucernas Depleted I 36x24in Mixed Medium Lucernas Depleted II 36x24in Mixed Medium 2026 Patricio Moment of Stillness 18x24in Acrylic and Ink on Satin 2025 Domiel Mercado 2026 Chai Soo The Last Autumn Waltz 3x2ft Acrylic on Canvas 2026 Jikka Defino Forgive Them For They Do Not Know What They Are Doing 18x24in Mixed Media (Wood and Repurposed Frame) 2026 Mounted during Women’s Month, Lumière recognizes that while women have long been acknowledged as foundational within the home, they are equally foundational within artistic and cultural life. The light they carry extends outward—into studios, galleries, collectives, and communities—where it continues to shape how contemporary Philippine art is imagined and sustained. Asha Velasco Nowhere and Everywhere 18x24in Mixed Media Collage 2026 Lumière gathers twelve women whose varied practices reflect this generative force:  Lyn Patricio  Domiel Mercado  Nanette Villanueva  Rara Carrillo  Rax Bautista  Chai Soo  Nova Lucernas  Tammy de Roca  Nida Hemedes Cranbourne Maryrose Gisbert  Jikka Defiño  Asha Velasco  The exhibition opens on March 11, 2026, at Kapitolyo Art Space and will remain on view until March 24, 2026.

For photographer Gail Geriane, stepping behind the camera to photograph Shaira Luna was more than a professional opportunity. It was a moment that quietly carried years of inspiration, admiration, and personal history. Shaira’s presence in the industry has long been felt, especially among women photographers who saw in her a kind of confidence that made the creative world feel a little more accessible. For Gail, that influence was deeply personal. Coming from the province and growing up with dreams that sometimes felt bigger than the environment she came from, seeing someone like Shaira take up space in the industry changed the way she imagined her own path. “Shaira has inspired not just me, but so many photographers, especially women,” Gail shares. “She’s opened doors and created space in an industry that hasn’t always made it easy for us.” Yet when the time came to photograph her, Gail didn’t approach the shoot with the pressure of doing something radically different. Instead, she focused on something simpler and more honest: capturing Shaira the way she saw her. Bright. Generous with her light. Strong in a way that feels both soft and certain. That honesty sits at the heart of Gail’s approach to photography, particularly when photographing women. She recalls a line once shared by her friend Marilou Morales that has stayed with her over the years: “For who understands the plight of women but women themselves.” For Gail, that thought continues to guide the way she works. The camera becomes a tool not just for documentation, but for reflection. Through it, she captures fragments of what she sees so others may see them too. The beauty, the complexity, and the quiet struggles that shape women’s lives often go beyond appearances. “Who else is going to tell the story of our experience but us?” she asks. That shared understanding naturally shifts the dynamic behind the lens. When women photograph women, there is often an instinctive sensitivity that emerges. It’s not always visible in dramatic gestures. Instead, it appears in small decisions. In patience. In the willingness to wait for the in-between expressions rather than forcing a moment. Women, Gail explains, carry a lived awareness of what it means to be seen. They know what it feels like to be admired, underestimated, celebrated, objectified, or misunderstood. That awareness informs how the camera is held. “It creates a sensitivity that’s quiet but intentional,” she says. “There’s often an instinct to protect while revealing, to empower rather than extract.” During the shoot, that sensitivity quickly found its rhythm. There was a moment where the energy shifted, when both photographer and subject seemed to meet each other halfway — not just as collaborators, but as women navigating the same creative space. “Once that clicked,” Gail recalls, “everything that followed felt lighter, more honest.” Trust played a central role in allowing that moment to happen. For Gail, one of the most meaningful aspects of the experience was the freedom Shaira gave her throughout the shoot. There was no micromanaging, no over-explaining, and no second-guessing of creative choices. “She just trusted me to see her the way I see her,” Gail says. “And for someone who’s shaped so much of the industry herself, that kind of trust feels big. To the point na nakaka-pressure na! Haha!” Still, that trust also created the space for Gail to express her own voice as an artist. For someone who once felt far removed from the creative circles she now works within, the moment felt unexpectedly full circle. “As a probinsyana who once thought this industry was so far away, having the chance to photograph someone like her already felt complete,” she reflects. Much of Gail’s perspective on collaboration and mentorship has also been shaped by her own journey through the industry. Having experienced moments where beginners are dismissed or underestimated, she now sees mentorship less as a hierarchy and more as a shared process. “Mentorship isn’t about standing above someone,” she explains. “It’s about standing beside them and saying, ‘I’ve been there. Let’s figure this out together.’” That spirit of support has been present in her own life from the very beginning. Gail speaks with gratitude about the women who have been part of her journey, particularly her close group of friends from high school. Among them is her best friend, Betita Sarmiento, who has been there through nearly every chapter. They were the first to believe in her work long before it reached wider audiences. They became her first models, her first supporters, and her earliest audience. “They cheered me on even when there wasn’t much to celebrate,” she says. “From my worst shots to my first magazine covers, they’ve been by my side.” It’s that kind of unwavering belief that continues to anchor her, especially in an industry that often moves quickly and demands constant visibility. Staying grounded, she admits, isn’t always easy. The creative world can push artists to produce more, be seen more, and keep up with the relentless pace of change. Gail has experienced the burnout and self-doubt that can come with that pressure. But she returns to the same reminder: to stay aligned with her intentions. “I remind myself that I am replaceable, and that the world doesn’t revolve around my worries,” she says. “There’s a bigger picture beyond deadlines, likes, or trends.” Returning to her province also offers a kind of reset. Being surrounded by nature helps her reconnect with a sense of perspective — a reminder of how small each individual moment is within the vastness of the world. In that quiet space, the pressure fades. Since she first picked up a camera in 2008, Gail has witnessed meaningful changes in the creative industry. More women now occupy roles that were once harder to access — photographers, directors, and creatives telling their own stories in their own voices. But she’s quick to point out that progress doesn’t mean the work is finished. “Women are still pressured to constantly prove themselves,” she says. “We’re often devalued, underpaid, and judged as less capable simply because we are women.” Even so, the growing number of voices entering the field gives her hope. What excites her most about the next generation of women photographers is the diversity of perspectives they bring. Each new photographer, she believes, adds another layer to the collective narrative — expanding how women’s lives, experiences, and complexities are represented. “The narrative is becoming fuller, bolder, and more honest,” she says. Looking ahead, Gail hopes women in the creative industry continue building a culture that uplifts one another rather than competing for limited space. A space where collaboration thrives. Where perspectives are celebrated. And where more women feel empowered to create freely, without restriction. If this cover could leave a message for women in the industry, Gail hopes it would be a simple one. “Strength doesn’t always mean being tough,” she says. “There’s power in softness, in vulnerability, and in embracing femininity on your own terms.” For Gail, beginning the year with a story centered on women supporting women carries a meaning that feels deeply personal. It represents not only where she is today, but also the journey that brought her here. As someone who once saw this dream from a distance, standing behind the camera for this moment feels like a quiet affirmation that she belongs. “Representation and women’s empowerment have always been the driving forces behind my work,” she says. “And to be given a platform to share that passion truly means a lot.” Then she adds, with warmth and sincerity: “Dako gud nga salamat.” Produced by BLNC Mag Photo: Gaile Geriane Make-up: Cats del Rosario  Hair: Phray Payek Production Assistant: Elcan Romaguerra @linawframe_ Art Direction: JM Jusay Studio Location: Espacio Creativo Escolta

There’s something quietly disarming about seeing Shaira Luna on the other side of the lens. For someone whose work has long defined how others are seen, this cover shifts the gaze. Shot by emerging photographer Gail Geriane, it isn’t about reinvention. It’s about reflection, trust, and a kind of creative exchange that feels both natural and necessary. For Shaira, being photographed is never something she fully settles into. “The awkwardness and excitement never really go away,” she admits, laughing. There’s a sense of irony in it. The person who spends her career holding up a mirror to others now finds herself navigating that same vulnerability. But this time, it felt different. Being seen through another woman’s lens brought a layer of familiarity and ease, even in the unfamiliar. It was their first time working together, yet there was already a quiet understanding in place. That ease is at the heart of this story. When women photograph women, the shift isn’t loud or obvious. It lives in the small things . The pauses. The glances. The unspoken permission to soften. Shaira describes it as a shared sensitivity that reveals itself through observation and openness rather than direction. There’s warmth in it, but also playfulness. “I’m always more kilig and giggly when shooting women,” she says, and you can almost feel that energy translate into the images themselves. It didn’t take long for that connection to settle in during the shoot. The first few frames, often a warm-up, quickly turned into something more fluid. Both Shaira and Gail approached the session without pressure, allowing space for instinct to lead. That openness created a rhythm where nothing felt forced. Just two creatives meeting each other where they are. Trust, in this case, wasn’t something declared. It showed up in the way Gail allowed Shaira to move as she pleased, even when it meant covering her face, a habit she admits she leans on when she feels self-conscious. Instead of pushing against it, Gail worked with it. She noticed the in-between moments, the gestures that felt most natural, and built from there. It became less about directing and more about paying attention. Saying yes to the project came easily for Shaira, and not for complicated reasons. At its core, it was simple. It felt like something she would have wanted when she was starting out. She recalls photographing women she admired early in her career, feeling the same mix of nerves and excitement Gail might have felt stepping into this shoot. Those moments stayed with her. Not because they were grand, but because they were generous. Welcoming. Human. This cover, in many ways, continues that cycle. There’s also a shift in how she views the industry now, especially for young women finding their footing. The idea of following a fixed path no longer holds the same weight. What matters more is individuality. “You can do it in the cutest footwear you own,” she says, half playful, half serious. It’s her way of saying that there’s no single mold to fit into anymore. The quirks, the uncertainties, even the discomfort, all of it has a place. Growth doesn’t always come easy, but it leaves a mark, and sometimes that’s exactly the point. Power, as she defines it today, is far from loud. It doesn’t need to announce itself. It builds quietly through experience, curiosity, and the willingness to keep learning. It’s also deeply collaborative. The confidence she carries isn’t hers alone. It’s shaped by the people she’s worked with, the exchanges that happen behind the scenes, the constant movement between observing and being observed. And while the industry continues to push for more visibility, more output, more noise, Shaira doesn’t see that as something to constantly chase. Staying grounded, for her, comes down to the basics. Showing up. Doing the work. Communicating clearly. Making decisions while staying open to possibility. There’s a balance to be found between presence and restraint, between being seen and knowing when to step back. What makes this cover resonate isn’t just the images themselves, but the spirit behind them. It’s in the way both women met each other without pretense. In the small, almost humorous details, like realizing they both say “cute” just as often while shooting. These are the things that don’t make it into the final frame, but somehow shape everything about it. If there’s a message that lingers, it’s a simple one. Not loud, not overstated. Just a reminder that in this industry, and in moments like this, there is still room for joy. For wonder. For women to not only see each other, but to support, create, and grow alongside one another. And maybe that’s the point. Not just to celebrate women, but to continue the work with intention. Quietly, confidently, and together. Produced by BLNC Mag Photo: Gaile Geriane Make-up: Cats del Rosario Hair: Phray Payek Production Assistant: Elcan Romaguerra @linawframe_ Art Direction: JM Jusay Studio Location: Espacio Creativo Escolta