Talking about devotional images for the home, it is
surprising that, growing up, I never saw
heirloom santos in our family altar.
Not even one. What we had were plaster cast saints from the 1950s, a handful of which survived—Virgen de los
Remedios, Fatima, Lourdes, and a
headless escayola figure of a Sacred
Heart of Jesus. But old, wooden tabletop santos?
Never. The only thing close was a small Nazareno that my Apung Tiri bought after the war, perhaps
from one of those stalls in Quiapo church, and which is now in the possession
of my 95 year old aunt.
Perhaps that’s what excites me when I visit my other
distant Castro relatives and discover antique family santos in their home altar. In one such visit to my second cousins,
I saw a couple of folk santos on a
table, not so finely carved, but antique nevertheless. Of course, my
cousins—who knew of my penchant for collecting them—would tell me stories
behind the santos—how this particular
San Isidro Labrador was often beseeched for good rice harvest by their Apu. Or
how this San Jose was prized by the mother, until termites gobbled him up.
These santos, however, would be
stored for good, when, one by one, my cousins left for the U.S., and I thought
I would never see them again.
But a day before
the last of my cousins departed for the U.S., I was in for a big surprise. When
I got home from work, I found this San Jose with a Child Jesus on my living
room table, brought there by my cousin in the hope that I can adopt it and have
it restored for my collection. I was grateful and thrilled at the same time,
and I promised to take care of their San Jose, no matter what shape he was in.
I have seen similar santos
of this make, possibly one of the earliest,--and cheapest-- types of
commercial, mass produced wooden figures, all with uniformed sizes, same
manikin body construction, same bases, and even same facial features.
The same
goes true for the globe-holding generic Niño,
made to be held by these generic santos
and santas, then clothed with different vestments and outfitted
with accessories, to finally define them
and their titles.
True, there may be nothing remarkable about this San
Jose, but its special-ness comes from the fact that it once was the center of a
family devotion, sharing home and hearth with my Castro forebears.
The wooden head of San Jose was in a terribly bad shape.
The wood had been eaten by termites, with half of the head gone—just a thin
shell---no nose, right cheek gone, the base, ridden with holes.
Surprisingly, the wooden body was in good condition, the
hands complete; even San Jose’s original rattan staff was intact. He was
wearing well-worn robes on his shapeless body, most likely sewn by another
cousin, an expert sastre (tailor), as
well as an old abaca wig.
The Niño was in better shape, as it was carved in one
piece. Its paint has long faded and it came to me clothed in a white eyelet tunic,
several sizes bigger.
My biggest problem was San Jose’s heavily damaged head. My
first impulse was to discard the head,
have a new one made, and that would have solved my problem. It also means
destroying the integrity of the image, no matter how plain and folksy it looks.
I decided to see if I could restore it myself , and so, armed with perseverance
and prayer, I embarked on this restoration project.
To fill the gaping hole on San Jose’s head, I had to buy
a can of plastic filler, some sort of a wood putty, that sets in an hour, then
dries in a day or two. My patience was tested when I started filling the hole,
as I had to do put the filler in one layer at a time, wait for it to set until
it achieves a clay-like consistency.
Then you build on this layer, poured more filler, wait
for half a day or so, and begin the process again until you build up the filler
all the way to the surface are of the santo’s
skin. Only then can I mold and shape
facial features—like the nose, nostrils, the beard, the missing cheek and forehead--using
all sorts of spatulas, ice cream sticks and even my hands. Sometimes, I was always in a rush; I would begin molding,
only to realize that the putty had not fully settled yet. After a day, the cheek
and forehead would cave in as the putty seeped through the crevices of the
hole-ridden head.
Meanwhile, I tried replacing the missing eye with a glass
eye I cut from a broken bulb. When that did not fit, I made another eye using
clear plastic, from an empty mineral water bottle. The fit was better! Finally,
after two week of filling, shaping, sculpting and sanding--- I declared my
finished santo head a success.
The next step was painting both the San Jose head and the
Nino. I was just too lazy to do this, so I just brought it to an art gallery in
Angeles and convinced the artist-owner to paint them, even though he paint only
on flat canvasses.
When I put the San Jose head on the cleaned-up manikin
body, I was pleased with the result, although it could have been better. I could
still detect a dent on one side of the head—the result of my impatience, of not
waiting longer for the putty to set. I could also have done a better job with sanding
the piece, as, despite the paint job, I could
still see areas where the wood and the putty meet.
For San Jose’s vestments, I retained the original green
tunic and had a full velvet cape made so that his clothes would have more
volume and body. I also spruced up the undershirt with lace.
The Niño had to
contend with His old clothes, which I altered to make it smaller. I smooched a
wig from one of my old santas, and had his metal halo re-wired (it is still with
the latero, so you don’t see him
wearing it here).
The final results of my San Jose restoration project are
on this page. I have signified my intention to donate this image to our chapel—on
behalf of my generous cousins-- as soon as I have a glass-fronted urna or cabinet made.
When I told my
cousins of this plan, they were elated and touched, of course, at the thought
that their San Jose—once their padre de
familia—would now be a Great Father to a whole barangay who would only be
happy to have him in their midst.
