Making art out of the things we leave behind
In a quiet home in San Mateo, artist and writer Glenn Martinez turns forgotten objects into repositories of memory by assembling worn-out textiles, discarded trinkets, and weathered tools into intricate shadow boxes that speak of history, faith, and the Filipino experience.
The author interviews Martinez, and the following are the artist’s words:
I’m a hoarder—not of Mabuhay! keychains or kitschy souvenirs, but of aged, weathered things with stories. I never return from a trip empty-handed. Whether I’ve wandered through far-flung provinces or local alleys, I find myself bringing home objects that whisper of time and place: worn-out textiles, trinkets from antique shops, forgotten tools from flea markets—the patina is irresistible. I chase not just the object but the moment of serendipity.
This compulsion turned into a practice, a lifestyle, and eventually, a form of storytelling. I write about local travel and Filipino heritage on my blog, Traveler on Foot, and over time, I realized that my collection of objects began to surround my living space—not as décor, but as reminders, sources of reflection, and provocations for essays. It became a way of training my eye and keeping my creative pulse alive.
In 2019, after a rough patch, I thought about letting go of the hoard. But parting felt impossible—until I began gluing some of them together into shadow boxes. Assemblage art was born out of necessity and a sense of release. The first one I sold was to a Belgian expat who drove from Ayala Alabang to my home in San Mateo to buy a piece. That showed me something: when these objects are arranged with new meaning, I can let them go. They stop being clutter and become narrative.
I call them museum boxes, my homage to 19th-century curiosity cabinets—little universes that blend nostalgia, legend, ritual, and invented mythology. They are altars to memory, to things we lose, and to how we tell stories through what remains.
As a Filipino-raised Catholic, I naturally imbue objects with a sense of reverence. I still hesitate before throwing out an estampita or old rosary. My youth was filled with disassembling toys, not to fix them but to reimagine them. I made forts out of broken parts, not instructions. That’s how I make art today—piecing together fragments to form imagined communities.
Assemblage isn’t just “craft” or collage. It’s part archaeology, part memoir, and all poetry. Every box has logic. It has a heart.
The Caja de Rojo series, which I created for the Luneta Art Fair, challenged me the most. Try making a red box without it resembling a Valentine’s gift or product packaging. It demanded restraint and depth—red is not a quiet color.
I’ve drawn influence from artists like Joseph Cornell, Alfonso Ossorio, Louise Nevelson, and locally, Jose Tence Ruiz, and Pewee Roldan. They taught me that assemblage can be intimate, philosophical, and political. It’s not about “value”—even buraot (discarded junk) can be sacred.
Today, I’m fusing printmaking and pottery with assemblage, creating hybrids. Because, like people, even broken things can belong again when placed in harmony.
My advice to fellow creatives? Don’t chase trends, chase meaning. Be generous. Build your door when others close theirs—and leave it open.
Assemblage taught me that nothing is truly broken. Just waiting to be reassembled.
You may reach Chong Ardivilla at kartunistatonto@gmail.com or chonggo.bsky.social.
