I make. This is what I do. Every day, I make things with my hands that are bound to get consumed or become unmade, but that doesn't stop me from making them again. And again. It is work that often isn't even recognized as real work, perhaps because it is just the stuff of day-to-day existence. (Everyone just expects that dinner will appear on the table, and that a messy house will become tidy.) And then, there are the things that I make just for myself — mostly pictures, sometimes words, always coffee — that help me find worth, and joy, in the things that I make for other people. Which means that my hours tend to be very, very long. But I can't have it any other way.
I felt a bit disoriented when I set foot at this compound in Pasay because there is now the beautiful Henry Hotel (Like No Other!) occupying a series of renovated houses. But I found my bearings and made my way to this shop. I get weak in the knees when I see nice dinnerware. April doesn’t show it but I can hear the excitement in her voice when she holds up glasses and talks about the cocktails she could put in them. This place excites me to make things. I mean, with my hands. Using my imagination. To be able to say, “I made this.” Maybe one day again.