Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Despite my propensity for silk robes, leisurely activity, and bar lounging, I am, at heart, an adventure-seeking boy. It explains my unlikely love for the ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy, ‘Adventures in Babysitting’, ‘The Goonies’, and anything involving a journey of some kind. It’s also the main reason for the restlessness of my heart. Satisfying all those terms is the book I’m currently reading, ‘The Heart of the World’ by Ian Baker. Detailing the search for the magical Shangri-La of Tibet – a storied waterfall region that promises both physical and mental transcendence – it is also a spiritual journey, steeped in Buddhism and grounded by adventure.

So far, it is pure escapism – the perfect antidote for the previous few days of stalled spring. A lit candle, a comfortable conversation couch, a free hour or two – luxuries all, and the greatest luxury in the world – a good book.

What terrors lurk on the border between sleep and wake? What wonders exist on the plane of that netherworld? It is initially a place of peace and repose, but it can turn quickly into a hostile landscape, filled with terror and troubled by the most fantastical and grotesque distortions of what once felt real. From this surreal abyss, Alan Bennett Ilagan draws the inspiration for his latest project ~  BARDO: The DREAM SURREAL.

Bardo: The Dream Surreal marks the first proper projectby Ilagan since 2009’s ‘FireWater’. (Not taking into account photo exhibitions, tours, and a wedding.) And it is a full-fledged project, with words and pictures, images and writing. It’s got the rough assemblage of his earlier work – raw and unpolished in spots, as in the days before it all got so digitally perfect – yet it has the heft and substance of something deeper than the fluff he sometimes favors. Bardo: The Dream Surreal is a bit of a dream treatise, exploring the cloudy realm of the in-between, stretching the limits of what is real, and confounding the expectations of anyone that thought they knew all the tricks of the artist.

It is abstract, and much of it remains almost frustratingly unexplained. Ilagan has never been this obscure or hidden, and while parts of it feel like an inside joke, the very disorientation it provides is a perfect metaphor for the dream world the project inhabits. Despite its abstraction, the project feels more vivid than some of Ilagan’s recent work. Bardo is a Tibetan phrase that translates to ‘in-between’ and was originally used to describe the immediate state between life and death. Since that time, it has come to mean any state of in-between – most commonly the state of dreaming.

Rather than going the analytical route so common with dreams, Bardo: The Dream Surreal takes an earnestly surreal approach, not bothering to explain anything away or offer deeper meaning. For many, even the most delightful and happy of dreams carry with them a certain tension – and this “surreality” can be both wondrous and frightening.

A few of the images here are disturbing – most convincingly in what they leave unseen (a broken robin’s egg, a pile of feathers from a dead bird) – and some of the written passages are filled with subtle dread and underlying tension (the idea of a creature – unnamed – lurking in the water of a pool, or the notion of a television stuck in repeating time), and this is where the project is at its best. Ilagan displays a deft touch in bringing such dread just to the surface without being heavy-handed about it, and there it lingers, sinister and devious, silently staring you in the face.

Balancing the darkness and the menace is the light-hearted whimsy that once made some of his less-serious projectssuch a joy to behold. The imagesof a scarf in a weeping larch, a sweater at the bottom of a pool, and Ilagan himself as a merman are as fanciful as they are compelling. What’s more interesting is how subliminally his own persona is buried within the project. Aside from the merman passage and a few early pool shots, there is little of Ilagan himself here. And yet we seem to be entirely engulfed in his own dream, which manages to be both gloriously limitless and fatally claustrophobic.

We first caught a glimpse of it as it began its ascent. We were returning from dinner, and to the left it hung behind the houses and buildings along the way, slipping behind a bank of clouds by the time we returned home. A little while later it appeared again, and I grabbed the camera and the tripod and went out into the front yard.

It was cold, but not unbearably so. Wrapped in scarves, bundled up to the ears, I stood on the porch looking up into the sky. There, behind the bare branches and emerging from the clouds, came the moon. Rising slowly above the horizon, it lit up the night. I snapped a few photos, but the moon stayed obscured behind the branches. I went back inside and waited for it to fly a bit higher.

Half an hour later, I went back outside. There she was, clear of the trees, and teased by clouds on either side of her. She looked magnificent, resplendent in her super-closeness. I stared up at her and focused on her face. It seemed as if the moon was pulsating, beaming light in waves, or my eyes were adjusting and readjusting to it – I could not tell which, but beneath the wavering light everything fell away.

I wanted to make a wish, I wanted to ask a question, but all that came to my mouth, almost inaudibly, was “Moon…” More of a whimper, the whisper of a plea, and then it was gone. Still I stared at the glowing orb above, soon to be shrouded in clouds, and my doubts and worries did not go away. Yet there, in the moonlight, in that moment, it was all right.

Tonight, we make our Spring wishes…

My husband Andy has been a big proponent of smudging since I met him. He’s probably the more spiritual of the two of us (I grew up in the land of the religious/superstitious). However, over the years we have each integrated practices of the other into our lives, and the art of smudging is something I attempted this past Friday.

It is, from what I’ve read and what he’s said, a Native American practice used to purify places and objects by removing negative energy and spirits. I imagine there are similarities in the incense used in other religious ceremonies. Personally, Andy and I have been in an end-of-winter funk, so anything that might drive bad feelings and energy away is fine by me.

Andy’s smudge wand of choice is made of white sage (Salvia apiana). A dried bunch of leaves and stems are tied tightly together, the end of which is lit and then blown out. The idea is that the smoke produced will drive any evil spirits or bad energy from the area – in this case, our home.

Moving methodically throughout the house, careful to turn off lights and shut doors behind me, I envisioned the path being cleared before me. The stale spirits of negative feelings, the residual winter blahs, and the wilted memories of sadness were being swept up and driven out by the smoking smudge. It was an act of symbolism, an act honoring winter, but politely letting her know it’s time to go. It was also an act of rebirth and renewal.

While I’m not about to run out and become a shaman, there is something to be said for the spiritual practice of smudging, especially when it’s about to be spring. It’s about letting go, and moving forward. Whether or not there are evil spirits rushing forth from our house and screaming from the smoke of sage, is debatable, but the peace of mind it brings, the idea of a new start – those are very real, and very reassuring.