You grew up in Mindanao during a time when parts of the region were marked by conflict and uncertainty. As a young girl living in that environment, what role did art play in your life during those years?

Growing up amid tension and instability shaped how I understood the world. From an early age, I realized that life could be unpredictable, and fear was everywhere.

As a child, I didn’t have the words to explain it, but I felt it deeply. In that space, creativity came into my life. Art became something to look forward to—a way to find inspiration and calm amid chaos.

Looking back, I see that creativity wasn’t just a coping tool. It gave me control, helped me process what I couldn’t express, and allowed me to rebuild a sense of peace within myself.

What do you do on days when inspiration doesn’t come—do you wait, push through, or find it in unexpected places?

I've learned to see those moments not as a lack of inspiration, but as a natural part of the creative cycle. For me, inspiration isn't a constant flame; it's something that ebbs and flows. On those days when it doesn't come, I don't force it. I allow myself to rest and simply live my life.

I'll often take a break and find inspiration in the everyday moments: I might enjoy nature, play sports, or just be present with my son. By stepping away and letting go of the pressure to create, I find that new ideas and a renewed sense of purpose often return in unexpected places. It's a reminder that my art is a reflection of my life, and sometimes the best thing I can do is simply live it.

Your work as a doctor exposes you to many human stories and emotions. In what ways has that shaped how you observe and express humanity in your artwork?

Working as a doctor has given me a raw, unfiltered and intimate view of humanity, especially in moments of vulnerability. It has deepened my empathy and sharpened how I observe subtle emotions.

In my art, I focus on expressing those unseen feelings and personal stories with care. I aim to reflect the complexity of human experience and create work that invites connection and reflection.

Looking back at your younger years growing up in Mindanao, what would you tell your younger self today about creativity, life, or following different passions?

I would tell my younger self to keep creating and not be afraid to follow different passions. Life doesn’t always move in a straight line, and every experience adds something meaningful to who you become.

I would also remind myself to be patient and trust the journey. Creativity grows over time.

Most of all: stay curious, be kind to yourself, and keep making space for the things that brings you joy.

If you had a whole week with no responsibilities—no clinic, no schedules—what kind of painting would you most love to create?

Most of my life is filled with work and family, so uninterrupted time would be a rare chance to fully focus on painting. I’d use it to create a larger, reflective piece exploring human presence, quiet emotions, and cultural identity.

The medium would depend on where I am and what I have: at home, I’d work on a large canvas with oils, acrylics, or mixed media; while traveling with some supplies, I’d use watercolors, pastels, or ink; traveling light, I’d create digital paintings on my iPad.

In all cases, the process is as important as the final piece. This focused time lets me fully engage with my creativity, experiment freely, and create work that reflects both my thoughts and the stories I want to share.

During the years when you were raising two children, working at a clinic, and studying for your medical license in Sweden, how did you find the space and energy to continue nurturing your art?

Life is busy, and finding time for art wasn’t always easy, but it remained important. I learned to use small pockets of time—late nights after the children slept, quiet weekends, or brief breaks from studying and work.

Over time, art became less about long hours and more about staying connected to creativity whenever possible. It gave me energy, helped me rest my mind, and allowed me to unwind and reconnect with myself.

When you step back from a finished canvas, how do you know it’s truly complete—and not just “paused” in its journey?

I know a painting is truly complete when my heart and soul tell me it is. It’s not about following a plan or a specific number of hours. When I step back, I listen for a certain feeling - a sense of quiet satisfaction.

It's a moment when the conversation between me and the canvas feels finished, and everything feels balanced and in place. The piece has told its story, and there's nothing left to say. For me, a painting isn't truly complete until I sign it. That signature is my final act of acknowledging that the journey is over and the piece is ready to be shared with the world.

What does a typical painting session look like for you? Do you usually begin with a clear concept, or do you allow the painting to evolve naturally as you work?

I usually begin with a general idea or feeling rather than a strict plan. Sometimes I start with a concept, especially when the subject relates to culture, identity, or a story I want to express. I may sketch a few loose ideas to guide the composition.

At other times, I allow the painting to develop naturally as I work. This often happens when I use unpredictable pouring techniques or when my children join me in the process. The colors, textures, and shapes can lead the work in unexpected directions, and I enjoy that sense of discovery.

You use your art to raise awareness about indigenous groups in the Philippines. What inspired you to focus on this subject?

My inspiration came from being part of a research project tracing the origins of the Filipino people, which involved collecting saliva samples from 110 indigenous and linguistic groups across the Philippines over 4–5 years. Through this work, I met communities often unseen due to their isolation or the difficulty and risk of reaching them.

This experience showed me how many indigenous groups remain misunderstood despite their deep knowledge, traditions, and connection to the land. My art seeks to honor their presence, highlight stories often missing from mainstream narratives, and encourage reflection on cultural heritage and identity. I aim to foster respect and appreciation for the Philippines’ rich diversity rather than speak for these communities.

The subject also mirrors my own search for identity and belonging, using art to honor my roots while engaging in a broader dialogue on history, culture, and representation.