Pavilions and Politics: Edson Cabalfin on Philippine Pavilions from 1958 to 1992

Introduction

National pavilions in international expositions are symbols of a nation’s aspirations and identity. These are condensations and physical manifestations of particular notions of the country’s status on the world stage and constructions of how the government wants other nations to perceive it. Much is written on the role of international expositions in empire-building and little on its relationship with postcolonialism.

Studies such as those by Robert Rydell, Timothy Mitchell, Patricia Morton, Zeynep Çelik, and Paul Greenhalgh, for example, focused on how international exhibitions were part of colonial practices that were inevitably inscribed within asymmetric power relations. They have suggested the role of spectacle and surveillance as necessary modes for maintaining a hierarchical relationship between the colonizer and the colonized. Through the physical arrangement of the countries as represented by their pavilions within the exposition fairgrounds, nations were then inevitably compared and placed in competition with each other.

Aside from the spatial positioning, displays of colonized peoples emphasized the evolutionary rhetoric of imperialism where colonized peoples were always relegated to the periphery, rendered secondary and inferior to the decidedly European-American center. Thus, the great exhibitions were inextricably intertwined with colonialism.

But what happens when we view international expositions after World War II, particularly within the context of postcolonialism? Using the Philippines as a case study, I attempt to illustrate the strategies by which these pavilions serve as emblems of postcolonial nations. “Postcolonialism” here is intended to mean both a “historical period,” that is, the era after colonialism, and a “phenomenon,” that is, the socio-cultural process of decolonization.

Specifically, we pose the following questions: How were the Philippines and Filipinos represented through architecture after World War II within the context of international expositions? How is the discourse of the nation articulated in the architectures of the Philippine pavilions in international expos?

To examine these phenomena, we compare and analyze Philippine pavilions in the post-colonial international expositions of 1958 in Brussels, 1962 in Seattle, 1964 in New York, 1970 in Osaka, and 1992 in Seville. Through the lens of architectural history, the pavilions are intended to shed light on the complex relationships between the built environment and cultural identity politics. We study these ephemeral architectures according to these themes: negotiation between colonial and postcolonial identity; mediations of exoticism and self-orientalism; and commodification of identity. Finally, this article would argue that these pavilions emerge as symbols of postcolonial nations and document the continuities and transformation of conceptions of self and nation.

Postcolonial Philippine Pavilions in Expositions

By 1946, after World War II, the Philippines officially declared independence from the United States. For the Philippines, this ushered in a new era in terms of political sovereignty and economic and cultural independence. In addition, post-war reconstruction efforts allowed the rebuilding of war-torn areas, such as Manila, which prompted massive building activity during the mid-century.

Culturally, the independence period reinvigorated issues of national identity among the intelligentsia and common folk. In architecture, this post-war resurgence of nationalism manifested itself in the search for a national architecture. International expositions served as one of the platforms for this search.

1958 Brussels’ Universal Exposition

One of the Philippines’ earliest post-World War II representations in an international fair setting was at the 1958 Brussels Universal Exposition. Aimed at promoting Belgian economic growth and the development of Belgian-controlled areas of Africa, the fair was also a vital venue for countries defeated during the war (such as Germany, Japan, and Italy) to re-establish their national images.

For the Philippines, this was the first time the country was presented as an independent republic. Modest in size, a mere 120 square meters in floor area, the Philippine Pavilion reinterpreted the bahay kubo, or the lowland native hut traditionally made of dried nipa (Nypa Fruticans) palm fronds and bamboo. Filipino architect Federico Ilustre, the Philippine Bureau of Public Works consulting architect, designed the pavilion. Later, Enrique San Juan, an associate of Ilustre in the Bureau, administered the construction on site.

The design was highly evocative of the native houses present in the early 20th-century world’s fairs but differed significantly with the materials’ treatment. The steep gable roof, for example, was made of translucent corrugated acrylic sheets instead of the traditional grass and palm-thatched crown. Natural light was further filtered in the interiors with the capiz or mother-of-pearl skylight diffusers. The pavilion was structurally modern in its form, as it employed round reinforced concrete columns for its primary structural system and concrete hollow blocks for its walls.

The exterior wall surfaces were rendered in bright colors and decorated with patterns inspired by the Muslim arts of Southern Philippines. Inside, displays introduced visitors to the Philippines’ scientific achievements, cultural traditions, folk arts, and plants.

As the pavilion was envisioned to express “a symbolic summation of cultural and scientific achievement of the Filipino people,” the design clearly demonstrated that for Ilustre, a return to vernacular traditions seemed to satisfy this symbolic requirement.

The juxtaposition of vernacular forms and modern materials attempted to portray the country as an agricultural nation but on its way to modernization. The pavilion’s shape was derived from a traditional house, which, in the original context, utilized ephemeral materials available in the locale, such as wood, bamboo, and grass. Transplanted to Brussels, the pavilion, in this case, alluded to the traditional stilt-raised house with steep roofing but was reinterpreted with more industrialized materials such as metal, concrete, and glass. To portray the Philippines’ modernization, the pavilion’s materiality suggests the advance of the country to a more industrialized direction. However, the presence of the indigenous house forms still acknowledged the extant cultural traditions that gave the Philippines its supposed distinctive character. Here, the country was coming to terms with its agricultural past and the desired future industrialization.

1962 Seattle World’s Fair

The Philippines’ contribution to the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair was situated within the International Mall on the north-eastern corner of the grounds. Together with the Philippines in the module were Thailand, Africa, and the United Nations. In the same vicinity were the exhibits of India, Korea, and San Marino. The International Mall featured a series of thin-shell concrete parasols, which provided the overhead shelter for the exhibits underneath. The exposition organizers provided these parasols and, later, the international exhibitors built their own displays under the shared roof.

A similar vernacular trope is apparent at the Philippine pavilion for the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair. Composed of two levels, the fifty-four square-meter pavilion prominently displayed Philippine hardwood species applied to slat screens, wall panels, and handicrafts. Hardwood slats strung on metal rods and suspended from the parasols created a porous visual screen in front of the pavilion. Outside of the pavilion, capiz or mother-of-pearl chandeliers immediately welcomed visitors. Designed by Filipino architect Luis Araneta, the Seattle pavilion, comparable to the Brussels pavilion, also celebrated indigenous materials as the distinctive mark of Filipino-ness in the architecture.

The open-plan interiors of the pavilion displayed capiz-shell lanterns suspended at the top of the stairwell, Philippine fabrics hung on the walls, and hardwood screens separated the exhibitions. Filipino sculptor Napoleon Abueva executed a bas-relief sculpture made from sugar cane. The handrail along the stairs also was made of Philippine hardwood. Other items displayed featured traditional brassware from Mindanao, furniture, home furnishings, and artwork. The exhibits were relatively austere and projected the atmosphere of a residential space rather than that of a commercial display.

1964 New York World’s Fair

At the 1964 New York World’s Fair, The Philippines’ exhibition pavilion was primarily inspired by an everyday object. Filipino architect Otillo Arellano created a 1,500 square meter round-shaped pavilion covered with a roof shaped like a salakot or the wide-brimmed and conical-topped farmer’s hat.

The symbolic gesture of the hat alluded to the agricultural and tropical nature of the islands. It also suggested the hardworking character of the Filipino people, upon whom the agricultural industry relied considerably. Instead of using palm fronds traditionally used to make the farmer’s hat, Arellano designed the roof with anodized aluminum roof sheets to protect the exhibitions under it. The overall plan of the pavilion was circular, with elements radiating from its center.

The entire pavilion was raised on steel pipe pylons, and underneath are twelve acacia carved wooden mural relief panels by famed Filipino artist Carlos V. Francisco depicting various events in Philippine history, both mythical and real. The four-meter high by six-meter long mural panels formed the centerpiece exhibit on the ground level. At the same time, the second floor highlighted industrial and cultural activities and the natural resources found in the Philippines. Thus, although the inspiration for the pavilion was derived not necessarily from a vernacular form of architecture, it nevertheless represented a bucolic, almost primitive representation of the Philippines, interpreted in a modern way.

Other displays included a wall of dolls in colorful costumes and accoutrements, depicting various Philippine scenes and ethnic groups. Mannequins featuring traditional costumes and fabrics dotted the exhibition floor. Photographs showing scenes from Philippine agriculture, industry, society, and culture covered the walls on the second floor. A yellow-colored “jeepney,” representing the creative appropriation by Filipinos of war surplus jeeps after World War II, was parked outside the first level.

A shallow pool surrounded the pavilion, reminding visitors of the archipelagic character of the country. The second level, also a showcase of Filipino technology, introduced pre-stressed laminated Philippine wood beams and stair stringers for the first time. Large glass panels framed in slender steel mullions with aluminum casing surrounded the second-level exhibition area. Completing the Philippine experience, performances featuring folk and ethnic dances were featured during “Philippine Week” celebrations at the fair.

1970 Osaka Expo

Somewhat veering away from the trope of vernacular architectures of the earlier Philippine Pavilions, the Philippines ‘ entry to the 1970 Osaka Expo this time advocated a more abstract representation of the country. Filipino architect Leandro V. Locsin (1928–1994) designed a sweeping mass of glass, steel, wood, and concrete forms that can be interpreted in various ways, whether “a leaf, a bird in flight, or a prow of a Muslim vinta” (boat with multi-color panel sail from Mindanao) as one journalist described it, and as an “Oriental” roof as another reported.

The jutting roof was supposedly an abstracted representation of the Philippines’ “surge to progress and modernity.” The crevice between the two curving roof forms straddled a dramatic skylight of narra (Pterocarpus indicus) Philippine mahogany wood lattice inserted with capiz (Placuna placenta) or mother-of-pearl discs, which gently dispersed the light into the interior. Under the roof, narra wood and Philippine mahogany wrapped the ceiling and other structural members giving the interiors a warm ambiance for the exhibitions.

Hand-woven fabrics from the Visayas, called hablon, also graced the walls of the interiors, adding color and further softening the hardwood and steel structure. Consistent with the dominant geometric language of the pavilion, the hablon textiles also featured highly abstracted patterns. The feel of the interiors was intended to be slick and crisp, achieved through the high-gloss finishes of the highly polished narra wood, translucent capiz, and glistening glass surfaces.

The exhibition highlighted the country as a multi-ethnic archipelago with a mixture of photographs, displays, paintings, and other Philippine-made products. The exhibits for this pavilion consciously veered away from a purely commercial affair by avoiding displays on trade materials and actual products that characterized earlier Philippine pavilions. Instead, the pavilion utilized around four hundred black-and-white photographs, projected images from eight projectors, color slides, and movies highlighting Philippine “history, culture, life and progress.”

Wood samples from the Philippines are subtly incorporated with the exhibit as abstracted sculptures and interior paneling. In addition, the pavilion displayed Philippine antiques, paintings, sculptures, and handicrafts at the basement level to portray the country as a civilized and cultured people. The dominant use of wood as a source of Philippine national identity also lies in wood being a vital export product. Wood was heavily promoted as a key product in the 1970 Osaka Expo. In fact, between 1969 and 1971, sugar, coconut, and forestry products generated almost seventy percent of export value for the Philippines. From the 1980s until the present, however, the share of wood products in exports and the Gross Value Added (also known as GVA or the measure of the value of goods or services produced in a sector of an economy) for forestry products fell sharply, especially in the light of depleting forest reserves.

1992 Seville Universal Exposition

At the 1992 Seville Universal Exposition, we witnessed somehow a return to the vernacular rhetoric when Filipino architect Francisco Mañosa built a bamboo-roofed structure on top of an existing building for the Philippine Pavilion.

The existing structure, donated by the Spanish government, was shared between Indonesia and the Philippines. Located along First Avenue, the Philippine pavilion was clustered around other Southeast nations, including Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, and Indonesia.

Echoing the forms of traditional huts from the Philippines, the hipped-roof structure exploited cut bamboo nodes successively layered to form a protective shield over the exhibition areas. With the theme of “The Philippines: A Manifold Land” for the two-level pavilion, the displays focused on the various cultural influences on the Philippines and its diverse natural resources.

Mañosa translated this multi-cultural aspect of the country through a large three-sided tower-like structure whose two faces displayed a mural made of six thousand pieces of painted capiz (mother-of-pearl) shells. Noted Filipino artist Eduardo Castrillo designed the mural. At night, the tower glowed, a polychromatic translucent mural portraying the fiesta or feast day of a patron saint. The mural was ostensibly a celebration of the Spanish influence on Philippine culture and society. However, inside the pavilion, a twenty-four by thirty-meter glass-etching centerpiece prominently showcased the Banaue Rice Terraces from the northern part of the Philippines.

Aside from the bamboo structure, a restaurant served traditional Filipino cuisine and featured performances by top artists, dance troupes, theater companies, and choral groups, completing the sensorial spectacle of the pavilion. The professional dance troupe of Bayanihan performed during the Philippine Week Celebration, providing the dynamic quality to an otherwise static exhibit, much like the dancers that entertained visitors to the 1958 and 1964 Philippine pavilions. As a tourism and marketing tool developed by the Department of Tourism, the pavilion served as a preview of some of the unique experiences potential visitors could encounter in the Philippines.

Problematizing Post-War Philippine Pavilions

The Philippine Pavilions at the various expositions after World War II signified the unfolding of a new phase of history, with the Philippines as an independent country. As such, the pavilions had the monumental task of summarizing the aspirations and efforts succinctly. The pavilions also had to shed the old image as a colony of Spain and the United States to fully declare the nation’s sovereignty. A new republic meant the creation of a new image. But did the Philippines really escape its previous image?

Most postcolonial pavilions were reinterpreted vernacular architectures that embodied a nostalgic return to pre-colonial times. Some pavilions were abstract representations of the country’s aspirations. Mannequins, dolls, and professional performers now replaced the problematic live displays of natives that were pervasive during the colonial period. However, upon closer inspection, the post-war pavilions, in fact, reiterate if not recreate and reproduce the same colonial rhetoric about Filipinos and the Philippines during the early twentieth century. The use of materials indigenous to the Philippines, such as wood, mother-of-pearl, and bamboo, defined the supposed essential character of the country. Natural materials, seen as derived from nature, were understood as immutable, necessary, and, therefore, legitimate sources of a country’s unique character.

This, of course, is fraught with problems. But for the designers of the 20th century, it seemed unproblematic. Suppose ostensibly nature was to be the sole basis of national identity. What would distinguish the Philippines from other countries that are also tropical by nature and blessed with similar materials? Indeed, one of the reasons the same rhetoric survived throughout the 20th century was the seeming naturalness and, therefore, the normalizing tendency of the trope.

Nonetheless, the pavilions’ architecture was seen as a vital mode of self-fashioning for the new republic. If the Philippines was depicted by its colonizers in the last 19th- and early 20th-century expositions, the post-war expositions were, at last, the independent republic’s chance to portray itself in an international setting. As a self-portrait, the pavilions were now understood in the postcolonial context as an empowering tool—an instrument for correcting and revising the country’s perceived backwardness. This was the chance for the postcolonial to finally represent itself on the world stage.

Expressions of Postcolonial National Identity

The late-twentieth-century Philippine pavilions express the emergence of the postcolonial Philippine nation on the world stage. They also emphasize the struggles of a new nation in coming to terms with its colonial past. How do you portray yourself when, in history, your identity is inextricably intertwined with that of your colonizers? For the Philippines, the postcolonial situation was not just about a repudiation of the American colonial experience but was also about negotiating with the Spanish colonial tradition. Which parts of history do you highlight, and which aspects do you denounce? In this constant layering of colonial experience, how do you delaminate the different layers and choose which to retain and which to remove?

As national identity in post-World War II Philippines was defined as an anti-colonial stance, the search for a legitimate source for Filipino-ness meant a disavowal of the colonial past and a return to primordial pre-colonial roots. In the design of exhibition architectures, Spanish colonial or American colonial styles or types of architecture were explicitly avoided. Instead, they were replaced with what was imagined as neutral forms of representation. For Filipino designers and architects at that point, pre-colonial indigenous architectures were deemed apolitical architectural statements because they were not associated with the cultures of the colonial masters. As statements of empowerment, the use of cultural elements allegedly untouched by foreign influence somehow eludes political bias.

In other cases, the quotidian (the ordinary or the everyday) was elevated to the national. We thus have seen the use of the bahay kubo, or the lowland native huts on stilts, the salakot, or the wide-brimmed farmer’s hat, or the vinta, the colorful boats from Southern Philippines, as sources of design inspiration. Folk cultures, which may or may not have been influenced by colonial culture, have entered the consciousness of the “everyday” or the “common.” Because of the seeming ordinariness or commonplaceness, these cultures are rendered “typical.” The everyday and the indigenous consequently were presented as neutral, innocent, and inert.

But what becomes challenging is the fact that no matter how pre-colonial or the everyday folk cultures are perceived as neutral or inert, they are, in fact, highly politicized and cannot remain innocent. So when some of the houses are described as “typical” representations of Philippine shelters, the label somehow simplifies the culture and reduces it to a caricature of a truly complex phenomenon. The supposed “typical” houses shown are, in fact, not “typical” because there are so many variations and permutations of the tropical house, as exemplified by the diverse creative approaches of the different ethnic groups in building their homes. For example, as historic anthropologist William Henry Scott has shown that the houses which are labeled “Cordilleran” found in the Mountain Province area of Luzon, in reality, are distinguished by a range of regional variations characterized by nuances in building form, material, and symbolism. By this normalizing tendency, a political and politicized act by itself, in fact, flattens and renders invisible the specificities of the various cultures.

Because not everything can be shown in a national pavilion, exhibitions necessarily are a highly selective and edited point of view of the Philippines. The space limitation necessitates an abbreviation of the imagery of the country. But the act of curatorship is itself a politicized operation, where the selection, arrangement, ordering, and interpretation creates a construct of the country and, effectively, the world. The fair visitor’s perception of the Philippines is therefore based on the curated portrayal of the country—the selection of handicrafts, commercial products, dances, and photographs it puts on display. While it is understandable why the Philippines selects a positive representation to depict an optimistic and encouraging view to lure investors and tourists, one also begins to wonder why certain elements are deemed “positive” over others. What value judgments are used to curate the exhibitions? How certain things are qualified as “positive” and others as “negative” remains a question.

To put a positive spin on the portrayal of the country, the postcolonial pavilions attempted to paint festive and happy depictions of the country through the colorful festivals, elaborate costumes, and lively dances, which belie the underlying challenges of nation-building. The agricultural industries’ showcasing of products did not reveal the struggles of land tenants who had been fighting for agrarian land reform. Questions of land tenancy that stem all the way back to the Spanish colonial period with the hacienda system and continued until the post-war period had been marked by peasant grievances against the inequitable distribution of land and the continued marginalization and exploitation of land tenants and workers.

The peasant revolution and the Communist insurgency raging in the Philippine countryside were likewise ignored in the Philippine pavilions. Moreover, the use of indigenous motifs taken from Mindanao and juxtaposed with the lowland houses, or the rendition of various dances from the northern part to the southern islands in a seemingly innocent repertoire, also ignores the tensions between Christians and Muslims and the continued struggle of Muslim Filipinos to create a separate Bangsa Moro (“Moro Nation”).

Even the use of Philippine wood and capiz shells purportedly as a testament to the authenticity of the pavilions and, effectively, the country, similarly do not divulge the problems connected with unabated deforestation, mining, and fishing which lead to the ongoing destruction of natural habitats and extinction of animal species and the displacement of indigenous peoples from their ancestral lands.

Philosopher and political scientist Anthony Smith noted that nationalism conflates three core ideals. These are “collective self-determination of a people, expression of national character and individuality, and, finally, the vertical division of the world into unique nations each contributing its special genius to the common fund of humanity.”

Following this logic, then, for the Philippines to participate in the larger international community, the nation has to prove its uniqueness in terms of what it can contribute to the “common fund of humanity.” But what is the nation’s “special genius”? For some countries, it is their scientific and technological advancements. But, for the Philippines, as the pavilions tried to show, the contribution lay in its unique culture and natural resources. In this sense, the exposition pavilions attempted to portray the nation’s uniqueness visually.

Instruments of Self-exoticism and Exclusion

In addition, the exhibitions served as the Philippine government’s means to project the nation as a homogenous whole while featuring the country’s cultural and ethnic plurality and the fragmented archipelagic geography. To do this, the national project invariably exoticized and excluded other cultures within the Philippines. The process of exoticizing cultures relegated certain Philippine ethnolinguistic groups as extraordinary and fantastic. Illustrating this was the use of Muslim arts in the 1958 Brussels’ exposition, which focused on the brilliant colors and intricate decorative designs, and the traditional bahay kubo of lowland rural Tagalogs, which celebrated the simple geometric quality of the structure at the 1992 Seville Exposition. Even the humble farmer’s hat inspired the 1964 New York Fair pavilion, which according to the organizers, was considered a distinctive symbol for the country “teeming of rural folks, who have upheld the principles of democracy in peace and war.”

The farmer’s hat, the Muslims from the south, and the Igorots of the north, portrayed as exotic cultures during the colonial exhibitions, were still treated as exotic during the postcolonial period.

While it is important to recognize the rural areas and Muslim communities in the Philippines, the pavilions fail to acknowledge the large urban areas and predominantly Christian population. In fact, the urban centers and the Christian populations tend to be the dominant de facto culture of the Philippines. Thus, the countryside and the Muslims were considered the “other” to the hegemonic (or dominant) official national discourse. Therefore, the government also projected the country as dramatically mysterious and exotic to be able to sell the country in the world market.

Again, going back to the idea of the nation’s “special genius,” the “other” cultural minorities of the Muslims and the rural countryside provided evidence of this unique cultural tradition. But, on the other hand, the Philippines’ urban and Christian populations, as these were understood to exist in other countries, were considered not unique.

Aside from the self-exoticizing tendency of the exhibitions, the pavilions in this attempt to paint a unified vision of the country necessarily excluded other cultures in the Philippines. If the pavilions were to be construed as authentic representations of the country, shouldn’t each ethnolinguistic group in the Philippines be represented? In terms of languages alone, there are at least seventy-eight distinct languages and five hundred dialects spread over around fifty-one ethnolinguistic groups in the archipelago.

In terms of identities, this does not include yet the variety of cultures such as the lowland and seafaring peoples, Christian, Muslim, and animist practitioners, the cosmopolitan urban and the rural agricultural populations, the mestizos and mixed-race peoples, as well as the other marginalized cultures in the Philippines. But as the 20th-century pavilions have shown, only a select few of these groups were ever portrayed. As earlier pointed out, the Igorots of the north and the Muslim groups of the south are often depicted as representative Filipinos. But what happens to the Hanunoo-Mangyan of Mindoro, the Ilonggos of the Visayas, or even the Tsinoys or Filipino-Chinese mestizos that undoubtedly form part of the contemporary Filipino nation?

Part of nationalism’s tragedy is that for a country to forge its national identity, it often requires the exclusion and erasure of ethnicities and identities within the nation. Describing Filipino nationalism, historian Arnold Azurin maintains that as it demands the “erasure of ethnicity . . . to become full-fledged Filipino or a nationalist…has made [our] sense of nationhood quite callously chauvinistic because it is anti-cultural, and thus rife for the label of ‘internal colonialism.’

This idea of what Azurin calls “internal colonialism” is thus connected to the self-exoticizing methods of the exhibits, where the new postcolonial elites take over the role of the former colonizers and apply the same instruments of colonization internally. Nationalist discourse does not only wage its war politically but also of equal weight, culturally. Again, the same exoticizing narrative and the exclusionary process continues from the 19th century to the 20th-century exhibitions.

Sites of Identity Politics and Commodification

The country’s multiple identities and layered historical experiences necessitate the editing of the narrative that the nation wants to depict in the exhibition pavilions. Due to physical space restrictions and the limits of the attention span of the viewers, the exhibit has to be concise and succinct. Thus in the planning of these exhibition pavilions, often- times a master narrative emerges, which, in the end, dictates the presentation of history and identity. While we acknowledge the physical limitations of architecture and its impact on the narration of the nation, we must also recognize that the creation of this narrative is embedded within power relations. Who gets to weave the national story? Who gets to choose who or what will be included in the displays? As respective governments sponsor their national pavilions and represent official nationalism, other voices are rendered mute, and counter-discourses are made invisible.

Philippine pavilions should also be understood in the context of commodification. In the exposition and world’s fair settings, the pavilions are logos or branding strategies for nations. As a brand, the nation’s unique culture, natural resources, and touristic sites are the commodities marketed to the international audience. As a tourism strategy, it serves didactic purposes in teaching the world about the nation’s history and culture. It entices the viewer to visit the countries and hopefully spend money in the country. Thus, the pavilions are promotional tools and advertising materials. Architecture also becomes an instrument for the promotion and performance of tourism.

But we should also be critical of the ways these promotions work. For example, which parts of the country are promoted and which segments are invisible? To what extent is the government being didactic, and to what lengths is the country being exaggerated?

As the country becomes a commodity, the pavilion has to become a logo. For the country to be easily identified in the sea of signs within the fair, the pavilion needed to portray the country as a distinct and self-contained image that is consumed and reproduced. Political scientist and historian Benedict Anderson argues that part of the nation-building process is transforming a country in its “infinite reproducibility,” and he has shown this through print and photography technologies.

I would like to extend his argument by adding that the exposition pavilions, aside from photography, mapping, and stamps, also provided the country’s ability to be infinitely reproduced. Although these pavilions are often destroyed after the event, the inherent messages continue to live and perpetuate through images, photographs, and ephemera. Pavilions are thus enmeshed in tourism practices to transform the nation into saleable, reproducible, and digestible products.

There is a need to reassess ideas and concepts in the design and planning of national pavilions for postcolonial nations such as the Philippines. Tropes that dwell on the vernacular traditions as a source of inspiration must be critically re-examined in terms of their theoretical validity and ethical legitimacy. A national identity that is solely predicated on pre-colonial and vernacular cultural traditions is doomed to fail. By consigning the vernacular architecture as merely part of a supposed pre-colonial past, ethnolinguistic groups are frozen in time and expected not to change. I am not arguing that we totally reject vernacular traditions. Rather these indigenous traditions have to be recast in a different light to respond to the imperatives of contemporary nation-building projects.

An architecture that aims to define its national identity must deal with the politics of identity formation. How do you deal with the ever-changing identities of the contemporary Philippines? How would you represent these multiple meanings and identities architecturally? Suppose we understand these ephemeral architectures as logos and brands of the nation. How can we transform them from symbols that continually perpetuate primitivist and exoticized images into liberative icons? An identity expressed in architecture cannot also be just the official narrative. Often, an official national identity imposed from the top tends to be rejected by the majority because of the hegemonic nature of this identity formation. How do you construct the process of identity-formation as a democratic operation? In the end, more questions do actually arise from these interrogations. Still, somehow, by posing more questions, we hope that our approaches in representing the postcolonial nation can become an empowering strategy. •

The text above is a slightly edited version of Dr. Edson G. Cabalfin’s paper, Postcolonial Identity Politics and Philippine Pavilions in International Expositions, 1958–1992, first published in International Research Symposium Proceedings: “Expo and Human History”, 2017. Dr. Cabalfin is Associate Dean for Faculty Affairs and Associate Professor in the School of Architecture and Built Environment at Tulane University in New Orleans.

Sources

[1]   There is a dialogue about the appropriate use of the term “post-colonialism” versus “postcolonialism.” The idea of a period (with a hyphen) versus a cultural condition and process (without a hyphen). For this discussion, refer to Vijay Mishra and Bob Hodge, “What is Post(-)Colonialism” and Anne McClintock, “The Angel of Progress: Pitfalls of the Term ‘Post-colonial- ism'” in Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader, eds. Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 276–304. For a general discussion and overview of postcolonialism studies, see for example Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 1994); Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (London: Routledge, 1998); Leela Gandhi, Postcolonial Theory: A Critical Introduction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, Postcolonial Studies: The Key Concepts (London: Routledge, 1998); Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds. Postcolonial Studies Reader, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2006).

[2]    Teodoro Agoncillo, History of the Filipino People, 8th ed. (Quezon City: Garo Tech Books, Inc., 1990), 351–370.

[3]    United States Philippine War Damage Commission, Final Report on Public Property Rehabilitation in the Philippines Pursuant to the Philippine Rehabilitation Act of 1946 (Manila: Carmelo & Bauermann, Inc., 1950), 4–6, 24–44; A. V. Hartendorp, “The War Damage and American Aid,” in History of Industry and Trade of the Philippines, vol. 1 (Manila: American Chamber of Commerce of the Philippines, Inc., 1958), 153–205.

[4]    Refer to discussions by Geronimo Manahan, Philippine Architecture in the 20th Century (San Juan, Metro Manila: Kanlungan Foundation, 1994); Gerard Lico, Edifice Complex: Power, Myth, and Marcos State Architecture (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2003).

[5]   John Findling and Kimberly Pelle, ed., Historical Dictionary of World’s Fairs and Expositions, 1851–1998 (New York: Greenwood Press, 1990), 313.

[6]   “The Philippine Pavilion in the 1959 Brussels’ Universal Exposition,” Bureau of Public Works Bulletin, April–June 1958, 16

[7]   Epifanio San Juan, “On the Philippine Pavilion in Brussels,” Bureau of Public Works Bulletin, April–June 1958, 32.

[8]  For an extended discussion on Philippine pavilions in international expositions, refer to my dissertation “Nation as Spectacle: Identity Politics in the Architectures of Philippine Displays in International Expositions, 1887–1998” (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 2012).

[9]  “The Philippine Pavilion in the 1959 Brussels’ Universal Exposition,” 16.

[10]  “As Others See Us in Our Pavilion,” Bureau of Public Works Bulletin, December 1958, 41.

[11]  “The Philippine Pavilion in the 1959 Brussels’ Universal Exposition,” Bureau of Public Works Bulletin, April–June 1958, 16.   

[12]  “1962 Seattle World’s Fair,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 2, no. 3 (1962): 31.

[13]  “1962 Seattle World’s Fair,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 2, no. 3 (1962): 31.

[14]  John Findling and Kimberly Pelle, eds., Historical Dictionary of World’s Fairs and Expositions, 1851–1998, 322–328.

[15]  “Philippine Pavilion at the New York World’s Fair 1964–1965,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 3, no. 2 (1963).

[16]  “Preview of the Philippine Pavilion for the New York 1964 World’s Fair,” Philippine Institute of Architects Journal 1, no. 1 (1964).

[17]  “Philippine Pavilion at the New York World’s Fair 1964–1965,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 3, no. 2 (1963).

[18]  Isabel Santos, Bayanihan, The National Folk Dance Company of the Philippines: A Memory of Six Continents (Manila: Anvil and Bayanihan Folk Arts Foundation, 2004), 97.

[19]  “Philippine Pavilion, 1970 Osaka Expo,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 5, no. 2 (1970); “Expo ’70 Pavilion: ‘Progress Through the Harmony of Diverse Cultures’̶RP Theme,” Architectscope, February 1970, 1–2.

[20]  “Expo ’70 Pavilion: ‘Progress Through the Harmony of Diverse Cultures’—RP Theme,” 2.

[21]  Nicholas Polites, The Architecture of Leandro V. Locsin (New York: Weatherhill, 1977), 212.

[22]  “Expo ’70 Pavilion: ‘Progress Through the Harmony of Diverse Cultures’̶RP Theme,” 2.

[23]  Patricio Abinales and Donna Amoroso, State and Society in the Philippines (Manila: Anvil, 2005), 197.

[24]  Hal Hill, “Industry” and Cristina David, “Agriculture” in Philippine Economy: Development, Policies and Challenges, ed. Arsenio Balisacan and Hal Hill (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2003), 176–177, 227–229.

[25]  Elpidio Refuerzo Cruz, “Expo ’92 and an Extravaganza of Discoveries,” Philippine Panorama, April 26, 1992, 4.

[26]  “Age of Discovery: RP to Participate in the Seville Expo,” Architectscope, March 1992; Elpidio Refuerzo Cruz, “Expo ’92 and an Extravaganza of Discoveries,” 4, 6–7.

[27]  Eric S. Caruncho, Designing Filipino: The Architecture of Francisco Mañosa (Manila: Tukod Foundation, 2003), 232; Raúl Rispa, César Alonso de los Rios, and María José Aguaza, eds., Expo ’92 Sevilla: Arquitec- ture y Diseño (Sevilla and Milan: Sociedad Estatal para la Exposición Universal Sevilla 92 and Electa, 1992), 212.

[28]  Elpidio Refuerzo Cruz, “Expo ’92 and an Extravaganza of Discoveries,” 7.

[29]  Felix R. de los Santos, “Viva Filipinas,” Starweek: The Sunday Magazine of the Philippine STAR, June 7, 1992, 12, 15.

[30]  Santos, Bayanihan, The National Folk Dance Company of the Philippines, 130.

[31]  Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 143.

[32]  William Henry Scott, “Cordillera Architecture of Northern Luzon,” Folklore Studies 21 (1962), 186–220.

[33]  See, for example, Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Random House, 1970).

[34]  US Department of State, “Hukbalahaps” in The Philippines Reader: A History of Colonialism, Neocolonialism, Dictatorship and Resistance, eds. Daniel Schirmer and Stephen Rosskamm Shalom (Boston, MA: South End Press, 1987), 70–77.

[35]  Lela Noble, “The Philippines: Muslims Fight for an independent State,” Southeast Asia Chronicle, no. 75 (October 1980), 12–17, as cited in Sally Swenson, “Philippines” in The Philippines Reader, 193–199.

[36]  Sally Swenson, “Philippines,” in Background Documents prepared for the Conference on Native Resource Control and the Multinational Corporate Challenge: Aboriginal Rights in International Perspective (Boston, MA: Anthropology Resource Center, 1982), 36–38, as cited in The Philippines Reader, 199–204.

[37]  Anthony Smith, Theories of Nationalism (London, Duckworth, 1971), 23, as cited in Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 8.

[38]  “Philippine Pavilion at the New York World’s Fair 1964–1965,” Philippine Architecture and Building Journal 3, no. 2 (1963).

[39]  Brian Wallis, “Selling Nations: International Exhibitions and Cultural Diplomacy” in Museum Culture: Histories, Discourses, Spectacles, ed. Daniel Sherman and Irit Rogoff (Minneapolis: University of Minneso- ta Press, 1994), 265–291.

[40]  The term “ethnolinguistic groups” has been used as alternative parlance to “tribes” to reflect the ethnic, language, and geographic distinctions rather than religious or political differentiation. Nicanor Tiong- son, ed., introduction to Peoples of the Philippines, Aeta to Jama Mapun, vol. 1 and 2 of CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Arts (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines, 1994), 3–8; Abinales and Amoroso, State and Society in the Philippines, 11.

[41]  Arnold Azurin, Reinventing the Filipino Sense of Being and Becoming (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 1995), 77.

[42]  For discussions on the burgeoning discourse on the intersections of architecture and tourism, refer to D. Medina Lasansky and Brian McLaren, eds., Architecture and Tourism: Perception, Performance, and Place (New York: Berg, 2004); Joan Ockman and Salomon Frausto, eds., Architourism (London and New York: Prestel Books, 2005).

[43]  Anderson, Imagined Communities, 182.

[44]  See for example Thongchai Winichakul, Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-Body of the Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994); Stanley Brunn, “Stamps as Iconography: Celebrating the Independence of New European States and Central Asian States,” GeoJournal 52 (2000), 315–323.