As for Ernst Cassirer, “Art is the enjoyment of forms,” reminding us that art is meant to be felt and experienced beyond the artist’s intent. The way lines, colors, textures, and materials come together isn’t just about structure—it’s about how they stir something in us, how they speak without words. Ultra Mareen’s ‘Pares’ embodies this idea where she transforms a bilao into a canvas, layering cutout styrofoam for the cows and weaving in organic materials for texture. It’s more than just mixed media—it’s a fusion of forms that invites the viewer to see, feel, and connect in their own way.

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A piece of art is also a piece of the artist’s emotions, personality, and individuality. Each piece is a reflection of their world, our world, seen through their own perspective and expression. Art as expression is often tied to the artist’s emotions and feelings during the creative process, but it goes beyond that. It can also be a message—something the artist wants the audience to perceive, experience, or understand. Through their work, artists don’t just express themselves; they represent ideas, stories, or symbols that hold meaning.

Whether depicting a community, an event, or an individual, art becomes a medium where artists freely share their perspective, turning personal expression into something that resonates with others. Expression and representation in art may be closely connected, but each has its own limitations. Representation leans less on personal emotion and instead focuses on form, meaning, and storytelling. It aims to convey messages whether social, political, or conceptual that reflect our physical world. Unlike pure expression, which is deeply personal and subjective, representation seeks to communicate something beyond the artist’s emotions, shaping a piece into a mirror of society, history, or ideas.

In his lecture on why the arts should matter, Dalisay argues that the humanities, beyond just the arts, are essential in shaping society. They encourage critical thinking, deepen our understanding of cultural identities, enrich education, and guide us in making informed decisions—whether in governance or daily life. Despite the stereotypes and undervaluation of the humanities field, they remain just as important as science and technology, often serving as their very foundation. Even for science students, the arts and humanities provide perspectives that help them understand the societal implications of scientific and technological advancements.  Science isn’t just about inventing, building, and experimenting; it exists in a world where ethical dilemmas are inevitable and that progress isn’t measured solely by breakthroughs themselves but also requires careful thought about the risks and its consequences ensuring that the innovations benefits the society rather than harm it. After all, scientific discoveries don’t happen in just a snap; they are shaped by societal needs, ethical concerns, and human aspirations, all areas that the humanities help us navigate. Ultimately, Dalisay reinforces that science and the humanities should not be perceived as conflicting fields but rather interconnected disciplines. Because while science propels technological advancements, the arts and humanities provide the ethical lens and societal perspective needed to ensure that these innovations are responsible, meaningful, and serve the greater good.

Well art today has taken on a broader, more fluid definition, often leaning heavily into aesthetics. A simple photograph of your morning coffee, a neatly arranged or cluttered workspace, or a fleeting Tuesday sunset can be considered art, capturing moments that are visually or emotionally striking. But art is more than just what looks good; it exists in countless forms and interpretations. While aesthetics are important, they alone don’t define what makes something art. Many powerful pieces go beyond mere visual appeal, shifting their focus toward expression and representation, bringing social or political ideas into the piece. Art isn’t just about what is conventionally beautiful; it can challenge norms, provoke thought, and spark emotion. That said, even when art is purely aesthetic, it still holds value. The artist has created something that resonates, that draws in an audience and evokes a response, whether admiration, nostalgia, or introspection. This, in itself, is an artistic experience. Ultimately, art cannot be confined to a single definition. It lives in the tension between aesthetics and meaning, shaped by both the creator’s intent and the viewer’s perception.

Wynyrd Paras’ "Huwag Mong Damdamin ang mga Bagay Dahil ang mga Bagay ay Walang Damdamin" is one of those pieces that doesn’t just ask to be looked at, it asks to be felt, or rather, not felt, as the title ironically suggests. The message is clear, even from the way the text takes up a large portion of the canvas. It isn’t just a title tucked away for context — it’s central, almost confrontational. Paras seems to be telling us, almost insisting, that the heart must learn to let go of things that don’t feel, things that don’t deserve our emotional weight.

The subject in the painting, a girl with a blank, unreadable expression reflects this idea. Her wide eyes don’t give anything away. There’s no visible sadness or joy, no tension or relief. And that’s exactly the point. Even as the background swirls with abstract colors and shapes that might suggest inner turmoil or unspoken thoughts, she remains still. Composed. Unmoved. The contrast is subtle but powerful, a visual representation of choosing calm over chaos.

What’s especially compelling is how the repeated text feels like more than a design element. It reads like a personal mantra, the kind of thing someone tells themselves over and over in quiet moments, not to forget, but to survive. That repetition, both visual and conceptual, turns the message into something meditative. Something practiced.

Then there’s the cartoonish figure on the left, simple, childlike, and almost out of place. But that’s what makes it so effective. It feels like a memory, or a version of the self that once felt everything too much. Juxtaposed against the more mature, emotionally neutral figure, it suggests growth, or maybe emotional armor. It’s easy to see parts of ourselves in both.

Even the way the text is written matters. It’s not perfect or mechanical; it’s handwritten, a little rough, like a note left on a mirror or the margin of a notebook. That small detail makes the piece feel human and honest. It doesn’t pretend to have everything figured out. Instead, it reflects what many of us do when we’re overwhelmed: we remind ourselves to let go of what doesn’t deserve to be held onto.

Paras’ work doesn’t just portray stoicism, it practices it. It’s not loud or dramatic, but it lingers. And whether you see it as a personal act of emotional control or a broader reflection on how we move through life, the piece quietly invites us to do the same: to feel what we feel, and then — maybe — to let it go.

I visualize Landscape II after great pain like this: even though you can still see the wounds and chaos—like how the strokes aren’t clean or uniform—you can feel where it comes from. It starts in black, where the deep sense of loss and absence is strongest, and the broken sunset shows that something once beautiful has been hurt. But after the great pain, colors slowly start to return, not all at once, but gently—still unsure, still holding on. It’s like memory is the only thing keeping it from fading completely. You see that even in grief, something tender and meaningful still tries to stay.

1) How can art be practiced for its own sake, separate from society?

Art can be practiced for its own sake when the focus is purely on beauty, form, or personal emotion—without any intention of connecting to the world beyond the canvas or page. It becomes something that exists in its own bubble, made just to please the senses or express an artist’s inner world. In this sense, art isn’t trying to say anything about society; it’s not concerned with real issues or the struggles people face. For some, this kind of art can be comforting—an escape from harsh realities. But for Salvador P. Lopez, that’s exactly the problem. He sees “Art for Art’s Sake” as a kind of retreat, a philosophy that chooses silence over responsibility. While creating for beauty alone isn’t necessarily wrong, Lopez believes that art should do more—it should speak, awaken, and take part in shaping society. So while art can exist on its own, apart from the world, Lopez reminds us that its true power lies in its connection to others.

2) Why is it detrimental to believe that art is a form of escape?

To believe that art is merely a form of escape is to strip it of its true power. It creates this illusion that art should only exist to comfort, to entertain, or to distract us from reality. For Salvador P. Lopez, this mindset is dangerous, it’s a “comfortable philosophy of escape” that turns artists into bystanders rather than participants in the world they live in. Art, in this case, becomes silent in the face of suffering. It chooses beauty over truth, and detachment over connection.

3) Why is it important for art to address the “problems of [the artist’s] time”?

Well, art has always been a reflection of the world it comes from. When artists choose to engage with the problems of their time, whether that’s injustice, conflict, or quiet everyday struggles, their work becomes more than just a personal expression; it becomes part of a larger conversation. Lopez points out that great artists don’t live in isolation. They’re aware, they’re responsive, and often, they’re brave enough to confront uncomfortable truths. So yes, art that speaks to its time matters. Not because it always offers solutions, but because it helps us see, feel, and reflect.

4) What does Lopez mean when he said that writers and artists should be “teachers of men”?

Lopez sees artists as more than just makers of beauty—they’re “teachers of men.” It’s not about preaching or giving answers, but about offering something that makes people pause, reflect, and maybe see things differently. For him, artists have a role to play in guiding others, not through lectures, but through stories, poems, and art that carry meaning.

5) Why does Lopez think that the highest form of art is emancipatory?

Lopez sees the highest form of art as something that liberates. It doesn’t just aim to please—it questions, resists, and speaks up. For him, real art challenges the status quo, gives space to voices that are often ignored, and pushes society forward. It’s not passive. It’s active. It’s a quiet kind of revolution, one that begins in the imagination but reaches far beyond it.

One of the most powerful and emotionally complex foreign series I’ve seen is Attack on Titan, a Japanese anime that goes beyond action to explore war, power, and identity. My favorite episode is Season 4, Episode 8: “Assassin’s Bullet,” where Gabi Braun shoots Sasha Blouse. The first time I watched it, I felt anger and heartbreak. But rewatching it with a critical lens, I started to understand the deeper reasons behind Gabi’s actions and how the dominant ideology of the Marleyan government shaped her.

In this episode, the dominant ideology is that Eldians, especially those from Paradis Island, are devils who must be destroyed. This belief is promoted through education, military training, and media, all of which are Ideological State Apparatuses (as Althusser calls them) that teach characters like Gabi to hate their own people. She truly believes she’s doing the right thing, because that’s all she’s ever known. But when she’s later taken in by Sasha’s family, who treat her with all kindness, the cracks in her belief system begin to show.

Rewatching the episode this way changes everything. I no longer see Gabi as just a villain, I see a child shaped by a system built to control her thinking. It made me realize how powerful and dangerous ideology can be when it becomes someone’s truth, and how hard it is to unlearn something you were taught to believe your whole life.

Classical art is considered representational because it shows subjects in a way we can recognize—like human figures, nature, or objects—but it does so in an idealized and perfected form. According to Alice G. Guillermo in “Styles of Figuration,” classical art focuses more on harmony, balance, and beauty, following strict rules rather than showing life as it really is. It avoids depicting flaws, pain, or the struggles of ordinary people, which is why it’s not considered realist. Realist art, on the other hand, breaks away from that ideal and shows the truth of everyday life, including poverty, labor, and historical conditions. So even if classical art looks “real” at first, it’s more about presenting a timeless or noble image than confronting reality—and that’s what makes it different from realism.

This is a self-portrait inspired by Pablo Picasso, using his cubist and abstract approach. As someone who tends to be spontaneous and just goes with the flow, I find Picasso’s style fun to follow. I like how abstract art doesn’t have to look like real life, and instead uses fragments of shapes and random objects to form something meaningful. The colors don’t always match, and the more chaotic it gets, the more alive it feels. Even though Picasso had structure in his style, this method feels close to how I think—unsure, messy, but still trying to make something out of it.

Yes, I believe my project is still considered art, even if it’s shared or reproduced digitally. What really matters is that it expresses something meaningful, evokes emotion, or represents culture, even if it doesn’t have that traditional or original feel. In a way, the intention behind creating and sharing it is what truly makes it an art.

How do the concepts of “originality” and piracy affect the way we receive works of art?

When we think about originality and piracy, it kind of messes with how we see art now. Sometimes a piece doesn’t have to be the first or only version to feel real or impactful. But piracy also makes it hard because artists might not get the credit or support they deserve, and that changes how we respect and receive their work.

The poem carries a quiet sadness that speaks to more than just memory—it shows a hometown shaped by poverty, power, and a kind of progress that doesn’t feel like progress at all. It reflects Althusser’s idea of ideology, how people are made to see their reality in a way that hides the truth of their conditions. The ones in power keep gaining more, while those left behind are taught, through schools, media, even family, to accept their place, showing how Ideological State Apparatuses work. You can feel the weight of colonial mentality too, how people try to become more “American,” thinking it’s a way out, when really it’s ideology shaping them as subjects. In the end, it’s about survival in a world that teaches people to forget themselves in the name of progress.