Abstract
The Philippines’ National Capital Region (NCR), commonly referred to as Metro Manila, is a conurbation comprising of sixteen cities. 1 Collectively, they cover more than 600 km2 of land. According to the 2020 Philippine Census, the NCR contains a population of 13.48 million people. 2 However, unofficial estimates 3 suggest the actual number of inhabitants, which includes informal dwellers, exceeds more than twenty million persons. Other than its enormous demographic scale within the present-day Philippine context, the NCR has a reputation for possessing urban districts of astonishing density. With an overall population density being at almost 21,800 people per square kilometer, 4 that is, over three hundred times greater than the Philippine national average, many districts in the NCR are recognized to house populations at even greater levels of concentration. For example, Tondo was recorded in the 2020 census to have in excess of 650,000 residents within its 8.65 km2 area. Thus, given its immense population size, Metro Manila is not only one of the world’s “great modern metropolises,” but it is also one of the world’s densest. Yet, irrespective of its contemporary size and nature, and indeed notwithstanding its rich urban history, books on Metro Manila by Western urbanists are scarce in comparison with those of other large-sized Asian urban places. 5
Annually, Philippine publishing houses print many monographs and edited volumes of varying word lengths and analytical depths on the local urban past, current urban environmental dynamics, and built heritage. While in general terms these publications are not well known outside of the country, this does not make them of lesser use or relevance to those interested in, for instance, Asian cultural studies, colonial urban history, and postcolonial urbanism. In consequence, in this review essay, attention is given to a handful of books recently published on different aspects of the Philippines’ urban and cultural past. All the books referred to in this text are authored by individuals based in the Philippines.
Saul Hofileña Jr., in Luna, Arquitecto, uses twenty-one chapters to focus upon/examine the lives of two prominent individuals in the evolution of Filipino art and architecture—these being, arguably, the greatest Filipino artist of the 1800s, Juan Luna (1857-1899), and his only son, the once-famous-but-now-almost-forgot early-modernist designer Andrés Luna de San Pedro (1887-1952). Hence, in the book’s introductory section, composed by the Philippine National Artist for Literature, Resil Mojares, thanks is given to Hofileña Jr. for taking Andrés “out of the shadows” (p. ii).
Given his legal background, Hofileña Jr. takes much time in Luna, Arquitecto to dissect the September 22, 1892 incident when Juan Luna shot, and killed, his wife and mother-in-law. The impact of this event, occurring in Paris, France, and Juan’s attempts (successfully, it must be said) to be acquitted of any crime form the bedrock to the book’s opening chapters. However, for urban and cultural historians, it is from Chapter 10 onward that Hofileña Jr. hits his strides. From there onward, Luna, Arquitecto outlines how Andrés Luna’s career as an architect began and grew to be one of national significance.
Educated at the École National Supérieure des Beaux Arts in Paris, Andrés Luna was privileged to be taught by French masters such as Edmond Paulin (1848-1915) and Emile Peirre Bertone (1867-1931). Upon returning to the Philippines in 1920, that is to say at the time Filipino architects were running the day-to-day operations of the American colonial government’s Bureau of Public’s Division of Architecture for the first time, he was able to find employment within the nationally important office (p. 86). Although as a new employee Luna’s work at the BPW was somewhat mundane (p. 88), when given opportunity to articulate his architectural prowess he was able to immediately impress his peers: the design of the Legarda Elementary School in Manila, built in 1922, testifies to his burgeoning design skills. In the view of Hofileña Jr., the Elementary School Building brought three immediate impacts to Andrés’ fledgling career: its dramatic design character “made people take notice of the outstanding ability of Andres to transport Victorian architecture to the Philippine tropical setting”(p. 89); the edifice “became the calling card to the rich who would want to have their houses designed by the son the great painter Juan Luna” (p. 89); and, in 1922, Andrés was able to commence employment with the City of Manila. In that year, he became the City Architect (p. 90).
While, by 1925, Andrés Luna’s career trajectory had taken him toward the domain of private as opposed to public building work, he nonetheless sought to develop Philippine architecture beyond the foundation laid down by the first generation of BPW Filipino architects, namely Juan Arellano, Tomas Mapua, and Antonio Toledo. As part of a new generation of Filipino designers, one comprising of individuals such as Pablo Antonio, Juan Nakpil, and Fernando Ocampo, Luna was able to import components of the European Art Deco into Manila’s built fabric, and morph it to apply to the unfolding Philippine modern context. This adaptability, notes Hofileña Jr. (p. 108), was evident in Luna’s private practices where he was able to work with both new and old styles, and between them. Such eclectism gave the impression that “a little bit of medieval Italy, France, and the Alhambra landed in the Philippines and blossomed along its tree lined boulevards and avenues” (p. 108).
Although Hofileña Jr. should be applauded for exploring the life and career of a remarkable architect, and by doing so informing the reader as to the shaping of Manila’s cityscape during the American colonial era, as a lawyer rather than a designer more architectural detailing could have been added into Luna, Arquitecto. In addition, more could have been studied/said of the context of Luna’s design career. Basically, Andrés Luna lived/worked during a time of profound political and cultural change in the Philippine capital city, one characterized by not only the importation and alteration of international design styles but also the expansion of modernity and the rise of decolonization too. How did these matters directly shape Luna’s career? While to a degree romanticizing Andrés Luna as an agent who beautified Manila—design beauty certainly was fundamental to the work of Luna—Hofileña Jr. downplays many aspects of Andrés’ life urban historians would like to know more of: Just how did Andrés Luna’s career typify the broader evolutions in society post-1920? How, in the setting of decolonization and societal modernization, did he set up his nation for architectural forms seen post–World War II as “modern,” “independent,” and Filipino? More to the point, did he?
A lack of focus upon historical context cannot be leveled at Fernando Zialcita, Erik Akpendonu, and Victor Venida for their book, Endangered Spendor: Manila’s Architectural Heritage 1571-1960. As Volume 1 in a series of three books—Volume 2 (forthcoming) will focus upon Manila’s southern districts, and Volume 3 (also forthcoming) will examine Manila’s northern neighborhoods—Endangered Splendor breakdowns the history of, and remaining built heritage in, Manila’s central districts of Intramuros, Binondo, San Nicholas, and Tondo. Said in the book’s preface, written by Guillaume Marchand (The Ministry of Culture, France) to be “an urban novel (roman de ville)” (p. xii), in truth Zialcita et al’s book is a call to arms. Manila, today, is a city where built heritage is under serious threat and against this backdrop Zialcita, Akpendonu, and Venida implore that there this is a need to better understand it to protect what is left of its historic buildings and spaces. As such, the four hundred pages of Endangered Splendor act as “a simple reminder that human beings, city-dwellers and citizens ought not to reinvent history but rather to continue it” (p. xii). In view of this perspective, the central question to the narrative of Endangered Splendor is: “How can a useable past be formed?”
With five main sections, each comprising of three chapters, Zialcita et al open their book with an explanation of heritage matters in a changing world, and introducing the themes of revitalizing Manila’s historic districts and preventing heritage destruction. As Akpendonu points out in the chapter “Endangered Splendor: Manila’s Disappearing Heritage” (pp. 45-57), Manila in recent decades has become hell-bent on removing any old features in the cityscape given the city’s and nation’s quest for “progress.” All in all, Akpendonu stresses public authorities have done little to safeguard built heritage and, despite valiant efforts by the heritage advocacy community, they have had little impact on the process politically labeled as “Build, Build, Build.” Akpendonu sums up the present-day situation in Manila as follows: In whatever manner it comes, Manila seems destined to continue losing its heritage. Without authentic, tangible and intangible witnesses to its history and past artistic and cultural achievements the city will continue to lose its identity, its unique character, its “sense of place.” Today, Manila is in danger of quickly becoming a non-descript, interchangeable “somewhere” in a “geography of nowhere.” (p. 57)
For anyone unfamiliar with the Spanish colonial history of Manila, the descriptively formed chapters “Intramuros Mother City” (pp. 59-140) and “Binondo Pivot of the Pacific” (pp. 159-217), both penned solely by Zialcita, are useful starting points. As the walled city from which Spanish cultural, religious, political, and social affairs emanated and affected life throughout the Philippine Archipelago (p. 67), today Intramuros is fundamental to Manila’s tourism promotion and its heritage preservation strategy. In contrast, Binondo, site of the Chinatown whose development was inextricably linked to the rise and success of the Manila-Acapulco galleon trade (1565-1815), helped shape Manila as a place of worldwide importance. With economic, social, and cultural currents within the continents of Europe, the Americas, Africa, and Asia converging upon Binondo, the transactions occurring within the locality enabled Manila to become the world’s first globalized city. Underscoring the importance of the Chinese and their mercantile habits, Zialcita explains the development of the district and the physical imprints that remain from the past (pp. 165-214). Accentuating Zialcita’s chronicle of lost glory, Victor Venida draws attention to the roadway of Escolta, “our former Wall Street” (pp. 218-21). Once the “Queen Street” of Manila today Escolta is in a sorry state: the demolition of historic buildings along the roadway has led to near removal of any sense of place that hitherto existed. As Venida makes clear (p. 220), even though ideas/plans exist within the architectural and heritage fraternities as to how the roadway can be reinvigorated, the process of renewing sites in the area by the City of Manila Council (under the mayorship of Mayor Joseph Estrada, 2013-2019), for example, via the construction of car parks and high-rise apartment buildings, has led heritage preservation voices to fall upon deaf ears. As a result, the historic character of Escolta is now all but gone.
If, as Akpendonu highlights (pp. 223-37), the issue of preserving heritage was not challenging enough, Manila’s cultural identity has in recent times been reshaped thanks to the proliferation of new architectural practices. Irrespective of the existence of heritage laws, and Philippine public authorities allegedly following international heritage guidelines such as those set out by the likes of UNESCO, old buildings have been demolished and replaced by new structures of differing aesthetic styles and scales. Facadism has become a term much used by heritage advocates in Manila to criticize present-day claims of building companies that their new edifices allude to historic styles of design. Claims Akpendonu (pp. 235-6), conservation and urban management can work hand-in-hand yet in Manila nowadays this is hard to see and, depressingly, the districts of Binondo and San Nicolas typify the current state of affairs. In the eyes of Zialcita (p. 244), not just historic buildings but also entire streets are under threat in many parts of central Metro Manila: as such, the history of people and institutions once central to the cultural and economic advancement of Manila, and the Philippines at large, is being wiped away in the name of speculative development and politically driven “advancement.”
While at times the abstract framing of heritage presented in Endangered Splendor echoes that given in seemingly countless of other city biography-centered publications, what is nonetheless clear in Zialcita et al.’s book is three basic points: first, the wealth of heritage—displayed by countless photographs—that still exists in Manila; second, the threat these buildings are presently under; and, third, should edifices continue to be razed then acts of demolition will further undermine contemporary awareness of the contributions of the Spanish, Chinese, and American diasporas to the shaping of the Philippines, and how these contributions made the country today what it is.
With specific reference to the Americans and their role in the making of the modern Philippine society, Mary Kristine Argao Segovia, Ana Luzzette Lareza, Joel Rico, and Robert Benedict Hermoso in The American Public School Buildings in the Philippines offer an extremely valuable window to anyone interested in the impact of foreign architectural ideas upon the development of early-1900s Philippine society. Utilizing a glut of primary sources, this archive-centric book underscores how and why the establishment of schools in the Philippines was one of the most important impacts of American (and to a less degree, Spanish) colonization. In particular, Argao Segovia et al’s publication accentuates three matters probably unknown to scholars outside of the Philippine Islands: the significance of the Bureau of Public Works as an arm of the American colonial government; the plethora of colonial laws once existing in the country to promote the development of education; and the efforts of the Americans, in part due to a lack of trained staff and shortage of funds, to standardize school building design. In this regard, the influence of the architect William E. Parsons stands out. With the Bureau establishing twelve standard designs for schools, hundreds of buildings were built across the Philippine Archipelago by the 1920s. Explaining their design, cost, construction, site layout, and so on, The American Public School Buildings in the Philippines supplies a unique window into the evolution of colonial governance and its imprint upon the evolution of building typology. Quite simply, the book has immense value to those seeking to teach either American colonial rule in Southeast Asia or American built heritage overseas. The “Gabaldon Schools” as they are known in the Philippines, now protected under law following the passing of Republic Act Number 11194 (in 2019), exhibit Parsons’ and the colonial government’s attempt at marrying modern North American architectural ideas with the traditional building forms of the Filipinos so that air circulation and acoustics could be maximized for the purpose of supplying learning spaces (p. 139). More so, names and places likely unfamiliar to the reader are presented so that a comprehensive national picture of public work schemes is given. In this milieu, mention is given to pensionados, that is, the young Filipinos sent to the United States to study in universities and, while in the country, learn “advanced civilisation.” Their experiences, and their grasp of sense of self, are touched upon in the book and give context to the evolutions in Gabaldon School design by the 1920s when, under the early forces of decolonization, Filipino architects such as Juan Arellano were seeking to assert “national identity” within the Bureau of Public Works’ architectural practice. 6
Identity, public works, and architectural style and meaning form the backbone to Maria Luisa Camagay’s handbook-esque publication, The City With a Soul. As an introduction to Quezon City, the settlement founded in 1939 as the future postcolonial capital of the Philippines, Camagay offers a celebration of its past-to-present growth. Although not the most densely written of books this publication acts as a decent starting point for anyone unfamiliar with Quezon City’s past, for example, as a site to promote social justice. Thus, as a planned low-density city, different types of residential houses and layouts were utilized (p. 23) so that a higher quality of life could be supplied (when compared with how the masses were then living in Manila). In seeking to form a settlement “with a soul, a Filipino soul” (p. 23), Camagay underscores the role/importance of President Manuel Quezon and how through time, sadly, the ideals of his administration, the Commonwealth Government (1935-1946), became challenged during the postcolonial years. Camagay’s book highlights too the role of the city in the nation’s quest to develop its own university infrastructure (on the Diliman Estate and at Loyola Heights), and how space became undervalued through time as Quezon City has enlarged and densified to the status of now being the largest municipality (in terms of population size) in the Philippines.
Designed at its inception to incorporate large green spaces—“parks were very much an indispensable part of the city landscape” (p. 117)—in part to assist Filipinos to breathe clean air and enjoy openness so that they could successfully recuperate from different maladies, similar to Hofileña Jr.’s book The City With a Soul lacks design detailing in part because it is not written by an author formally schooled in planning or architectural history. In consequence, the role of the Quezon Institute as an example of both proto-modern architecture and health care is underplayed. The same too can be said of the barrio obrero, that is, the pioneering worker housing scheme for civil servants that offered a new model for Filipino living. Its influence was evident in the 1949 Master Plan. In this planning scheme, housing layouts divergent from urban forms previously seen in the country were proposed as a means to ensure family contentment could be assured in the postcolonial setting.
Even though Camagay’s work follows the historiographic tradition of presenting Quezon City in a celebratory manner—Quezon City is shown to now be the richest city of its country, is talked of as a model of good governance and as the most business friendly city in the Philippines, and so on (p. 173)—Michael Pante opts for a different scholastic stance. By doing this, he has undoubtedly composed the most authoritative work on Quezon City’s early history. Based on a PhD thesis undertaken at the University of Kyoto, Pante’s A Capital City at the Margins 7 explicates how Quezon City’s reign as Philippine capital city, from 1948 to 1976, is not one of glory but rather is a tale of failure. In the opening pages of A Capital City at the Margins, Pante’s stance is clear: Quezon City “is a city rarely viewed and understood on its own terms” (p. 1). So, to see and understand it on its own terms, he trawls through a mountain of primary and secondary sources to analyze and explain why the city did not replace Manila post-1948 as the primary city of the Philippines. Of note too, Pante explores how the national government’s lack of willingness to wholesale move its offices from Manila to Quezon City post-war resulted in sways of land not being built upon for public buildings: empty sites were then used by large numbers of migrants to build homes (and, evidently, informal communities emerged). Accordingly, for all its contemporary wealth, Quezon City today has large volumes of “squatters” and slums. So, for a host of reasons states Pante, Quezon City in the past and today is a paradox (p. 6). For all the Filipino idealism grounded from 1939 in the planning of a new capital city, and the “newness” this new settlements symbolized of the nation as it headed into the postcolonial reality (p. 9), Quezon City emerged and enlarged as a place at, and of, Filipino margins. The boundary between social and political idealism and real-world politics, the dichotomy between rich and poor, and the border between the urban and the rural hinterland all fed into the development of the city in the early-postcolonial decades. Quezon City ultimately became, argues Pante (p. 13), “a place for urban-rural encounters,” and this actuality of being a buffer “blunted the official vision for the city as a citadel of democracy and a home for the ordinary tao (common citizen)” (p. 13).
In historiographical terms, and thereby making A Capital City at the Margins such a great resource for scholars of Philippine and Southeast Asian urban history in general, is Pante’s clever breakdown of the American influence upon the development of Quezon City’s housing projects, countryside-based insurgencies, and the nature of postcolonial Filipino technocracy. Colonial-era issues of land ownership (p. 133), the Huk Rebellion and rural crime (pp. 138 and 142), and so on are skillfully explained. In addition, Pante examines topics that include the Cold War influence upon Philippine dynamics and private real estate’s investment make-up so as to illuminate why the public vision of Quezon City formed at the end of the 1930s mutated into an urban environmental and social reality different during the decades following national independence (in 1946). Not only, it seems, did the private sector build the vast majority of houses in the city by 1970 (p. 179), it also brought to the fore coercive dynamics that led to dispossession for the urban poorest at the same time as upper class taste for gates enclaves, albeit ones based on American models, was growing (p. 180). Because of a lack of access to capital, the tao were unable to enjoy the trappings of the planned new city. In contrast, those with financial means were granted the luxury to buy—literally and metaphorically—into the concept of Filipino spatial exclusivity: “No wonder the city was one of the preferred places of residence of postwar politicians” observes Pante (p. 183).
In summary, Pante’s narrative of Quezon City offers a detailed, thought-provoking insight into the failure of urbanism to supply social betterment. Given the idea for a new capital city was tendered by President Manuel Quezon (1878-1941) so that a spatial manifestation of a “free, democratic” soon-to-be independent nation (p. 17) could be brought to reality, Quezon City today falls far short of the social justice for the masses Quezon imagined. Whereas during the Commonwealth Era (1935-1946), the Filipino elites perceived Manila as a fragmented, troubled locality and, against this background Quezon City was to offer a social and spatial “fresh start,” the development of the postcolonial capital city has eventually mirrored many of the problems Manila was judged to have before World War II occurred. Subsequently swallowed into Metro Manila, Quezon City’s politicians and social elites still today present the city as a place of dreams, hope, and betterment despite the fact, as Pante highlights, that here is a bitter irony to this assessment (p. 255).
Taken together, the books reviewed in this essay supply a range of methodologies, perspectives, and themes to understand the imperfect advancement and flawed management of urban society in Manila and its surrounds. Offering different degrees of attention to primary source usage, the publications put forward frames through which the physical character and meaning of the modern Philippine urban environment can be grasped. They also explicitly offer information as to how politics has shaped, and continues to shape, the makeup of the urban form and what the Filipino notion of “social development” is believed to be. To conclude, what the books to differing degree outline is that to come to terms with the nature of the NCR today exposes one simple fact: what is good for the elites is not necessarily right or best for everyone else.