BACOOR CITY, Cavite — From afar, the stalls looked almost identical.

Under the mall lights were rows of handcrafted things arranged to catch a passing eye: artisanal cookies boxed like gifts, halo-halo in bright colours, charms and trinkets strung neatly on display boards. At one stall, beads in soft pastels and bright acrylics hung in tidy little clusters, waiting to become something wearable, useful, and personal.

My family and I had been drifting through the space without much urgency when my mum slowed down and began to look more carefully. She had been searching for a phone charm, something stylish, but practical, too. In her mid-50s, she often jokes about her stiff fingers and wandering mind. A charm, she said, might help her keep her phone closer, easier to grip, and harder to lose.

At a glance, any of the charm stalls could have offered the same thing. Strings, beads, cords, little add-ons, all laid out with care. To anyone not paying attention, the differences between them might have seemed minor.

But art has never lived in objects alone. It lives in the person who makes them, in the way they are offered, and in the kind of connection they create before a sale is ever even made.

That was how we met Lana Nate Burdeos of Craft Haven by Lana.

She greeted us with an easy “Hello po!” and a smile that felt genuine rather than rehearsed. There was no hard sell, no insistence, no pressure that made you want to clutch your wallet and keep walking. She simply welcomed us in. That, in itself, was enough to make us stay.

Her phone charms sell for P150, inclusive of the thin rope, five letter beads, and unlimited beads from her other selections, as long as they fit the length of the cord. Additional letters cost P10 each, and so does the phone anchor, the small attachment that lets the finished charm hang from a mobile phone and makes it easier to hold.

CUSTOMERS get to choose their beads and align them in a way that feels personal and collaborative with the maker.

It is a simple enough product, but simplicity can be deceptive. What Burdeos was really offering was not just a customised accessory. It was a small collaboration between maker and buyer, a chance for someone to leave with an object that felt a little more like their own.

As we talked, it became clear that the deeper story of her work was not only about craft, but about courage.

Burdeos had paid P2,800 a day to table at the mall, on top of the cost of materials, without knowing for certain whether she would earn back what she had spent. Later, she learned that during special events, organisers often seek out merchants directly, and that going through them could bring the fee down to around P1,100 a day. It was the kind of lesson artists often learn while already in motion, after they have already taken the risk.

Still, she joined.

Not because the outcome was guaranteed, but because she believed in her ability to try, to sell, and to recover even if things did not go as planned. That kind of faith is not always talked about when people discuss art as a livelihood, yet it may be one of the most necessary parts of it. To make something is one thing. To put it in public, price it, stand beside it, and trust that it deserves to be chosen is another.

Craft Haven by Lana has grown beyond phone charms alone. Burdeos also conducts workshops on journalling, scrapbooking, phone charm-making, and the creative use of stationery for teams, companies, cafés, and malls. The business has expanded not only because she knows how to make things with her hands, but because she knows how to bring people into the process.

That distinction matters.

Artists are often taught to improve their technique, refine their style, and keep practising until the work speaks for itself. But the reality of building an art business asks for more than skill. It demands the ability to connect, to advocate, and to believe that what you have made belongs in other people’s lives.

Burdeos put it plainly when I asked whether the old line “walang pera sa arts” still rings true.

For her, it does not.

She said people today are far more appreciative of the beauty and value art brings into their lives. There will always be those who look at creative work and belittle it, people who say, in effect, that what an artist does seems simple and therefore should not cost much. But those, she said, are not the people worth focusing on. An artist cannot build a life around people determined not to understand the work.

The harder part, according to Burdeos, is not connection. That comes more easily, especially among people who already share a love for making things. The more difficult task is marketing, finding ways to present the work so that others not only admire it, but want to pay for it.

I agreed with her immediately as an artist myself. We make art to express ourselves. Earning from it matters, too, especially when the goal is to live from the very thing that feels most natural to create. But marketing is another language altogether. It asks artists to step outside the private instinct to make and enter the public labour of persuasion.

Burdeos said she is thankful for the people around her, especially those in her team who have stronger instincts for that side of the work.

At the heart of how she now sees her practice is a piece of advice from her husband, one she recalled in words that cut through the usual myths about talent and competition.

“Ang art, marami ang gumagawa niyan. May mas magaling sa'yo. May mas mura sa'yo, may mas upgraded ang mga machine at material. Pero ang wala sila ay ang network mo.” 

(“A lot of people make art. Some are better than you. Some are cheaper than you, and some have more advanced machines and materials. But what they do not have is your network.”)

It is the kind of statement that lingers because it feels both practical and deeply human. The point is not that skill does not matter. It does. So do quality, discipline, and originality. But art has always been relational. Long before it becomes a business, it begins as an attempt to reach somebody, to move them, to make them feel less alone, more seen, more delighted, and more understood.

In that sense, network does not merely mean contacts, followers, or a list of names in a phone.

It means knowing how to introduce yourself and your work. It means approaching organisers before you are fully certain of the answer. It means saying, without embarrassment, that what you create has value. It means understanding that self-advocacy is not vanity, but survival.

Burdeos even turned that lesson back towards me.

As a fellow artist, I told her that while she works in crafts like custom charms and stationery, I work in paintings and drawings. She responded not with vague encouragement, but with a practical suggestion: if I can draw in real time, I should approach wedding organisers and offer live illustrations as souvenirs. Like her decision to approach SM Bacoor and find a way into that retail space, the advice was simple and direct: Reach out. Offer the work. Let people know what you can do.

It was, in its own way, another reminder that opportunity often begins before the art is even seen. Sometimes it begins in the asking.

By the end of our conversation, my mum and I walked away with matching phone charms, bright and pretty and fitted to our liking. But we left with something else, too: a new connection, and a clearer understanding of what helps art endure beyond talent alone.

MY mother and I walked away with bright smiles and bright matching phone charms.

In a marketplace full of people making beautiful things, what lasts may not simply be who is most skilled, cheapest, or best equipped. Sometimes, what lasts is the person who knows how to make others feel welcome, who knows how to speak for their work, and who understands that art, at its core, has always been about building a bridge between one person and another.

In Burdeos’ hands, even beads become a way of doing that.

Those interested in Burdeos’ products and workshops may contact Craft Haven by Lana through 0928 644 9474 or on Instagram at @crafthaven.lana.