Edgardo Crisol, my angel of perseverance and spunk, rest in peace
We had a run through of my recital at his house in early April. Other people involved in my recital were there as well, allowing a reunion of sorts.
My repertoire was divided into three parts. The meaty middle part (aptly called "Geeking Out") consisted of six showtunes from the usual suspects like Webber and Schonberg. After those six songs, he said "Perfect six. Brava". It was then he felt assured that my show would be great. He was at peace because putting the show together was laborious and he was thinking of everything concerning it.
And that was the last time I saw him. He was gracious and energetic, his hair was well kept and he left an impression on the rest of the afternoon's company. Apart from the priceless look on his face as I ran through my entire repertoire his full self and his entire being was present and vibrant.
He never got to see my recital, and he probably never got to hear the recordings. For all I know, I was the last of his students to have a recital while he was still alive. Incidentaly, this recital would be my last performance in the counrty before leaving for New York for good.
I got the call about his passing hours after the fact but by then, the steamroller had already passed. I had already seen it coming and I couldn't cry. Like the calm after a storm, or the numbing sensation of settling down after a show. However, reflective moments would lead to me smiling to my self and laughing from my belly at his memory.
Every lesson with sir Dodo couldn't be described any lesser than revelatory. I was forced to take a hard look at myself and I was pushed to my limits only to prove that I can reach that bloody high note.
He made a holistic process about reaching that note while I was going through some metaphysical shifts in my head. With every fiber of my being engaged in the act of singing and performing, I have never felt as tired. Or hungry.
Every Sunday Micko and I come to Katipunan (all the way from Muntinlupa) without expecting anything but the fear of the unknown. Sir Dodo must have felt my anxiety (which a good kind of anxiety) and started lessons with an hour long chitchat. Aside from effortlessly reaching a high G, I found it to be a small victory to have made him laugh.
It is with great pride and profound humility to call sir Dodo a mentor. Like any beginning of any relationship, we met at one point but I would rather say that he found me. He found me at a time when theater was about to be something that I'd give up. It was a time of discouragement, anger and disappointment. Sure enough, he called out those demons the first time I sang for him, thus saving me from them and ultimately salvaging my passions.
Nevertheless, he heard me. He didn't just hear my voice. He didn't just hear the anomalies of mismanaged vocals and the anger issues that plagued my conscience. He heard me and knew everything about me and what I am capable of.
My recital last April 17th was something that he would have applauded. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have had a recital to begin with. My little concert had a humble turn out, but my goodness were they talking about it for a week. I would have done it again if I had the resources, most especially if he were still here.
Sir Dodo's death could not have come at a more auspicious time. He came into my life just when I was thinking of quitting, and he died not even a month before my flight. As if he didn't have any more significance with each voice lesson. I am convinced that God himself brought him all the way to Muntinlupa for me. There can't be any other explanation.
And now, I have a lot to give tribute to him for. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have regained belief in myself. I think I'd disappoint him more than my own family if I didn't embark on performance once I land in the US. He did push me to my outmost limits and I cannot put those labors to waste.
As if you didn't bear enough significance already. It's a peculiar time to depart, sir, leaving at this stage of my life when I am about to go full circle and return to America. You made things easier to bear, for someone who is going on her own journey.
Thank you for saving me from giving up. Thank you for listening to what I could surprisingly do. Thank you for finding me.
Here's to last pages and Fate, to head tone cherubs, to a certain preference for the English languge, to the human voice, to Prince Zardoz, to CCP urban legends, to photoshopped hearts, to sugar crashes, to disappearing boxes. Your memories are precious. Yours are the words I'll allow to be burned onto my skin and stitched onto my heart.
You're already a part of me and I'll be taking you with me, on whichever stage I shall hopefully grace.
My repertoire was divided into three parts. The meaty middle part (aptly called "Geeking Out") consisted of six showtunes from the usual suspects like Webber and Schonberg. After those six songs, he said "Perfect six. Brava". It was then he felt assured that my show would be great. He was at peace because putting the show together was laborious and he was thinking of everything concerning it.
And that was the last time I saw him. He was gracious and energetic, his hair was well kept and he left an impression on the rest of the afternoon's company. Apart from the priceless look on his face as I ran through my entire repertoire his full self and his entire being was present and vibrant.
He never got to see my recital, and he probably never got to hear the recordings. For all I know, I was the last of his students to have a recital while he was still alive. Incidentaly, this recital would be my last performance in the counrty before leaving for New York for good.
I got the call about his passing hours after the fact but by then, the steamroller had already passed. I had already seen it coming and I couldn't cry. Like the calm after a storm, or the numbing sensation of settling down after a show. However, reflective moments would lead to me smiling to my self and laughing from my belly at his memory.
Every lesson with sir Dodo couldn't be described any lesser than revelatory. I was forced to take a hard look at myself and I was pushed to my limits only to prove that I can reach that bloody high note.
He made a holistic process about reaching that note while I was going through some metaphysical shifts in my head. With every fiber of my being engaged in the act of singing and performing, I have never felt as tired. Or hungry.
Every Sunday Micko and I come to Katipunan (all the way from Muntinlupa) without expecting anything but the fear of the unknown. Sir Dodo must have felt my anxiety (which a good kind of anxiety) and started lessons with an hour long chitchat. Aside from effortlessly reaching a high G, I found it to be a small victory to have made him laugh.
It is with great pride and profound humility to call sir Dodo a mentor. Like any beginning of any relationship, we met at one point but I would rather say that he found me. He found me at a time when theater was about to be something that I'd give up. It was a time of discouragement, anger and disappointment. Sure enough, he called out those demons the first time I sang for him, thus saving me from them and ultimately salvaging my passions.
Nevertheless, he heard me. He didn't just hear my voice. He didn't just hear the anomalies of mismanaged vocals and the anger issues that plagued my conscience. He heard me and knew everything about me and what I am capable of.
My recital last April 17th was something that he would have applauded. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have had a recital to begin with. My little concert had a humble turn out, but my goodness were they talking about it for a week. I would have done it again if I had the resources, most especially if he were still here.
Sir Dodo's death could not have come at a more auspicious time. He came into my life just when I was thinking of quitting, and he died not even a month before my flight. As if he didn't have any more significance with each voice lesson. I am convinced that God himself brought him all the way to Muntinlupa for me. There can't be any other explanation.
And now, I have a lot to give tribute to him for. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have regained belief in myself. I think I'd disappoint him more than my own family if I didn't embark on performance once I land in the US. He did push me to my outmost limits and I cannot put those labors to waste.
As if you didn't bear enough significance already. It's a peculiar time to depart, sir, leaving at this stage of my life when I am about to go full circle and return to America. You made things easier to bear, for someone who is going on her own journey.
Thank you for saving me from giving up. Thank you for listening to what I could surprisingly do. Thank you for finding me.
Here's to last pages and Fate, to head tone cherubs, to a certain preference for the English languge, to the human voice, to Prince Zardoz, to CCP urban legends, to photoshopped hearts, to sugar crashes, to disappearing boxes. Your memories are precious. Yours are the words I'll allow to be burned onto my skin and stitched onto my heart.
You're already a part of me and I'll be taking you with me, on whichever stage I shall hopefully grace.