Writing stories is not limited to lines, curves and phrases. Sometimes, stories are told through objects and memories — through discarded things that, when brought together, transform into something meaningful and artistic.
Stories not from ink and lines
Cristina “Ling” Quisumbing Ramilo does not write poems with ink or line breaks. Instead, she composes them with wood scraps, pencil stubs, perfume bottles, mirrors and fragments of lived time. Across four decades of practice, Ling has quietly built an artistic language that transforms memory into form — where objects speak, humor disarms and the everyday becomes deeply personal.
Her work, recently featured as part of LAKBAY 2026 under the exhibition Through Visual Poetries, places her at the heart of a broader conversation on the Filipino diasporic experience. Curated by Marika Constantino and Carlo Pineda of Art House, the show spans nearly 40 years of Ling’s practice, tracing a journey shaped by migration, return and an enduring fascination with material memory.
The path to the creative side of chaos
Ling’s artistic path did not begin with assemblage. For 23 years, she lived in New York, where she focused primarily on painting and drawing. Even then, she recalls having a strong sense of being Filipina — something that surfaced in her imagery and themes. But when she gradually moved back to the Philippines and began renovating her grandmother’s house, everything shifted. Amid piles of discarded wood and architectural fragments, she discovered new possibilities. What started as a practical renovation soon became a turning point: the scraps themselves demanded attention.
That moment marked her transition into sculpture and assemblage, a practice that would come to define her work. For Ling, objects are never neutral. Each carries a history, a previous life, a trace of use. “I have a fascination for objects,” she said in an interview with DAILY TRIBUNE’s Pairfect. “Each object has a story — and we all have stories” Ling added.
‘Mukhang pera’
This philosophy comes through vividly in Mukhang Pera, one of her most talked-about works. Using expired, shredded Philippine currency, Ling recreated a monumental version of the 100-peso bill. Where the familiar oval detail should be, she placed a mirror. Viewers who step closer find themselves reflected back — literally confronted by the title, which loosely translates to “looks like money” or “money-faced.” The work is playful, sharp and unmistakably Filipino, using wit to expose uncomfortable truths about value, identity and desire.
Embedding Filipino popular culture
Humor, in fact, is central to Ling’s practice. It draws viewers in, lowers their guard, and invites participation. Unlike traditional gallery pieces that command distance, many of her works insist on touch and use. Her benches — functional sculptures meant to be sat on — reject the typical “do not touch” rule of exhibition spaces. “I prefer my works to be interactive,” she explains. “I like people being able to use them.”
Interactivity, however, is never gimmicky. In works like Spinalove, inspired by perya roulette wheels, Ling layers familiar phrases — “100 percent guaranteed,” “lifetime warranty,” “topak,” “selosa” — into spinning forms that feel instantly recognizable. These are not abstract concepts; they are emotional signifiers embedded in Filipino popular culture. Viewers do not just see the work — they recognize themselves in it.
From nostalgia, with love
Many of Ling’s materials come from deeply personal sources. She has used her mother’s perfume bottles, old clothes spanning her life from childhood to the present, and inherited household objects. One ongoing work, Butterfly, continues to grow as long as her life does. The passage of time is not something she resists; it is something she builds into the work itself.
Her process is intuitive and patient. Some pieces take weeks to complete; others take years. She collects materials long before she knows what they will become, trusting that meaning will eventually emerge. One such example is her pencil-stub sculptures. Unwilling to use newly purchased pencils, she partnered with a nearby public school, exchanging new pencils for used stubs from students. The result was not only a more authentic material but a quiet exchange rooted in care and community.
Everything is always in progress
Sustainability, for Ling, is not a trend but a natural extension of how she lives and works. She dislikes waste and gravitates toward objects that have “passed their prime” — scraps of wood, sandpaper, cigarette butts, old photographs. Through careful composition, these discarded materials become visual poetry, expressing ideas about aging, loss, love, heartbreak, and resilience.
One of her most conceptually striking works, Work in Progress, features a miniature scaffolding scaled to her own body. Viewers can enter it, becoming the “portrait” themselves. Whether occupied or empty, the piece suggests that identity is never fixed — that everyone, like the artist, is perpetually under construction.
Stay authentic and you will not be lost
Despite her international exhibitions across Taiwan, Yogyakarta and Kuala Lumpur, Ling remains grounded in introspection rather than spectacle. When asked for advice, she resists giving formulas. Instead, she emphasizes knowing oneself and staying authentic. “If you’re just doing work for other people,” she says, “you’ll be lost.”
After 40 years of making art, she refuses to name a favorite piece. “They’re all my children,” she says. Each work marks a moment when she said what she needed to say — before moving on, once again, to begin.
In Ling Quisumbing Ramilo’s world, nothing is ever truly finished. Objects age, meanings shift, and stories continue to unfold. And somewhere between memory and material, poetry quietly takes shape.