Manuel Ocampo: Exclusive Interview for February Cover

If there was anyone in the art world who understands the con, it's Manuel Ocampo. The artist has yet to fold to the weight of the scene's empty theatrics and sanitized expectations. He’s one of contemporary art’s last true rebels—disconnected from the polite white walls of museums or the transaction-heavy gloss of blue-chip galleries. He belongs to the margins, where the sacred and the profane converge. Subversion is a permanent state of mind.

Ocampo paints like how Georges Bataille (referencing in the monograph Fear of a Kitsch Existence (2017)) writes: raw, grotesque, and defiantly unholy. The provocateur paints like a man possessed, a child vandalizing the walls of burning cathedrals. His body of work is a punchline delivered with a shiv, a carnival of contradiction where saints and swastikas, vomit and virtuosity, all merge into a single writhing organism.

Esquire Philippines' February 2025 Cover:

Manuel Ocampo

ADVERTISEMENT - CONTINUE READING BELOW

ALSO READ:

Inside Esquire Philippines' Exclusive Event for the February Cover

What I've Learned: Boots Herrera

It’s funny. For about three decades, the artist has made a career out of rejecting good taste and dodging the grasp of polite curation and the auction-centric machinery, yet somehow—against all logic—he is celebrated in three continents. He has presented at the Venice Biennale and Documenta IX. His pieces have made it into the halls of the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, Fonds National d’Art Contemporain in Paris, and Mudam Musée d’Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean in Luxembourg.

Now residing permanently in the Philippines, he continues to channel monsters. This young nation of ours is in the thralls of its own coming-of-age, and is still greatly undefined, still volatile, still capable of surprise. Celebrating his 60th birthday, Ocampo remains a pleasant shock.

CONTINUE READING BELOW

watch now

"I don't think artworks are honest."

The gospel, according to the tricksters

Unsurprisingly, Ocampo thrives in chaos. He’s an artist whose work is steeped in critique but doesn’t necessarily align with any one ideology; hell, not even a national identity. Calling him a Filipino artist feels almost reductive, not because he denies his roots, but because he refuses the limitations of imposed being.

"Artists having a national identity—I think artists should challenge that. Because identity is a construct, I think. The artist should challenge the very notion of national identity," Ocampo muses. "It's something that we learned in school, what a Filipino is. It's sort of like indoctrination through the culture. Maybe there shouldn't be just one national identity. Or something that's prescribed to us. Maybe that's the role of the artist."

ADVERTISEMENT - CONTINUE READING BELOW

Looking at an Ocampo painting is sifting through cacophonous landscapes of "ugly" characters, Catholic iconography, colonial symbols, and crude, childlike drawings, all colliding in a delectable visual cariño brutal (try to look at this term through a Bataille-esque erotic lens). There’s a hysteria and irreverence to them. They reject aesthetic purity, swapping in the vulgar and monstrous for the common fluff and conceptual garbage.

Ocampo’s anti-aesthetic sensibility is a callback to art’s great tricksters, such as Francis Picabia, Martin Kippenberger, Claus Carstensen, and Curro Gonzalez. Ocampo doesn’t just reference these artists. He ends up embodying their radical defiance.

Picabia, the shape-shifting Dadaist, remains one of Ocampo’s clearest forebears. Picabia rejected artistic consistency, jumping between styles and movements with gleeful irreverence. His works mixed classical painting techniques with industrial motifs, caricatured figures, and nonsensical compositions. Sounds familiar

"I think once you hang a work in a commercial gallery, it’s already within that scope: it’s already Westernized… You’re selling it as contemporary art, as made by an author."

Ocampo echoes this approach in his stylistic mutability—his ability to swing between meticulous Renaissance-inspired oil painting and graffiti-like scrawls. Like Picabia, Ocampo resists the notion of authenticity in art.

ADVERTISEMENT - CONTINUE READING BELOW

"Well, I don't think artworks are honest. I think when you're a young artist, you keep it honest, because you don't know the rules of the game yet," he explains. "But as soon as you get into the system and you know how to play it, I don't think you're... You're trying to hack the game to your advantage. Maybe what I see as honest is like... naivete."

The recognition of the art world’s "game," this deliberate sabotage of artistic sincerity, is pure Picabia. Fellow provocateur Karstensen, meanwhile, shares Ocampo’s distrust of artistic sincerity. Karstensen’s works reject refinement, favoring crudeness as a political stance.

On the other hand, Gonzalez’s influence on Ocampo lies in his commitment to the intersection between horror and humor. His compositions, much like the Filipino art provocateur’s, often exaggerated to the point of monstrosity, share a spiritual kinship with Ocampo’s disfigured saints and nightmarish caricatures. To hell with taste, to hell with beauty and cohesion. Punk as they come.

Recognition is a trick mirror, call it a funhouse of distortions of intent. Despite this resistance to institutional or critical validation, Ocampo has permitted himself some quiet moments of recognition. "As far as being vindicated by the public, I sometimes resist it, I reject it," he quips. "But there were two occasions when I felt like, 'Okay, what I did was correct.'"

The first was when the German artist Albert Oehlen invited him for a collaboration, while the second was when Julian Schnabel asked him to visit his studio. Affirmations, sure. Such doorways are where new systems of exchange rearrange power. Beyond the glitzy star-maker machinery and show ponies of the auction world, true collaboration finds a way to fester and ferment.

PHOTO: MM Yu

The art market as a necessary evil

If Picabia permitted Ocampo to be stylistically unfaithful, Kippenberger showed him the value of self-sabotage. The German enfant terrible of the '80s and '90s was notorious for his relentless mockery of the art world. This grotesquerie is not just visual but ideological—it forces the audience to question their complicity in the narratives that Ocampo deconstructs. Ocampo channels this same energy in his critiques of Western hegemony and cultural flaccidity, extending to the systems that nurture this degradation.

"It’s not about your art. It’s about your brand. It sucks, and that’s what’s happening in the art market right now."

The Filipino art market is not spared from this. When Ocampo made a permanent return to the Philippines in 2005, he recalled how raw and rebellious Manila’s art scene was. It was a time when dialogue was valued over investment.

"[At the time], I noticed that the Manila art world was very dynamic. And people were experimenting a lot because there was no real market in 2005," he remembers. "The galleries were still situated in the malls, like [SM] Megamall. Most galleries would open at the same time. And the conversation was just among artists, within the artist community. So you’re making works to create dialogue with other artists. And you’re not thinking about the art market."

Manuel Ocampo wears Mabuhay Maynila — MM Yu

Then the money came flooding in as the country’s auction stars went regional and global. By the late 2000s, Filipino contemporary drew collectors from Hong Kong, Singapore, and beyond, making waves among premier auction houses and galleries. Seismic exposure, it was. Ocampo, however, mourns the dormancy that was cultivated because of it.

"I think it all went downhill when art became a big business in the Philippines," Ocampo laments. "People started buying works based on speculation. Galleries started moving out of the malls and building their own art spaces, these big art spaces. And so the artists were forced [to shift]. They were pressured to be more ambitious. And, of course, to be more sellable. I think Philippine contemporary art lost a lot of its edge around that time, around the 2000s to the 2010s."

Artists would find themselves caving into a growing class of speculators, dealers, and collectors who saw paintings less as artistic statements and more as stock options. "There’s a lot more people buying art, but also, there’s a lot more people buying art for investment," he says. "It doesn’t come from the passion of collecting. It comes from playing the game. Being ‘in’ on the game. It’s sort of like a gamble. So, it’s changed from art collecting to art buying now."

When prices dictate output, authenticity becomes a casualty. Ocampo has seen some of his own paintings caught in this speculative churn. "Sometimes, a collector will buy my painting from an art fair in February and by September, I’ll see it in the auction house, and the price would triple," he says. "And you feel bad because you feel like you’ve been cheated."

Ocampo continues: "You think you make the artwork. You put your hours and sweat into it, and then for a person to auction it off for a profit. It’s not about your art. It’s about your brand. It sucks, and that’s what’s happening in the art market right now. Because it’s become such a business."

This commodification extends beyond individual careers. It has fundamentally reshaped Filipino contemporary art, pushing artists to produce work that succumbs to market trends or the proverbial "Asian aesthetic" rather than meaningful inquiry. "Since art has become big business now in the Philippines, a lot of artists are choosing this career path of being an artist. I think they’re not aware that it’s like they’re being chewed up and spit out. Then, later on, that’s it. Your career stagnates."

"We can analyze it, question it, and protest against it. That can become an issue. But I don’t think we can escape being Westernized."

One antidote to hyperconsumerism, however, has been the emergence of artist-run spaces and cooperatives. In, let’s say, Quezon City, galleries like KalawakanSpacetime, Sampaguita Projects, and Pablo Gallery come to mind. These spaces exist outside the mainstream gallery structure. "There’s a lot of artist-run spaces now that are on the fringe. Maybe they’re not selling that much, but it’s a good support system where you still feel that there’s a community."

There are larger archaic structural issues tied to the rise of commercial art in the Philippines (our allegiance to Western sensibilities, imperialist frameworks, and patronage politics, to name a few). But arguably, the most absurd question that the artist faces amidst these power dynamics is this: how do you decommodify or dewesternize the work when its existence is measured in its intrinsic commercial value?

"I think once you hang a work in a commercial gallery, it’s already within that scope: it’s already Westernized. You already call it art," he claims. "You’re selling it as contemporary art, as made by an author. I think these concepts are Western concepts."

Manuel Ocampo studies and sketches — MM Yu

Breaking from individualist norms, we may draw from our indigenous history to at least address the paradox in question. Ocampo offers this: "Before we were colonized, Filipinos were making things, or the natives of this land were making things. It was for some purpose. It was a communal thing, like weaving. It’s not like, 'Oh, I’m the artist, I made this, and let’s hang it in the gallery.' I think that’s just a Western concept."

Rejecting Westernization is easier said than done. As Ocampo acknowledges, "I don’t think we can avoid that. We can analyze it, question it, and protest against it. That can become an issue. But I don’t think we can escape being Westernized."

"It felt empowering since we didn't rely on corporations to back us up or give us financial support. We did it all on our own."

PHOTO: MM Yu

What becomes of the anti-heroes

After making noise across Europe and North America, Ocampo’s homecoming didn’t exactly resemble a triumphant homecoming (he might have preferred it that way, too). It was an uneasy reentry into an open and unpredictable ecosystem.

"After coming from the United States, it was difficult. But it was challenging at the same time. And I felt like at the time, [the art scene here] was very open to a lot of possibilities," he expresses.

But, in Romeo Lee, a pillar in the local underground art movement, Ocampo found someone who exhibited the same anti-establishment and countercultural spirit that Ocampo stood for. The art provocateur would eventually help Lee’s visibility within the local and international gallery circuits with some collaborative exhibitions.

Ocampo co-exhibited with the punk artist Lee Almighty, staged at Mag:net Gallery within the ABS-CBN Compound back in 2003. "[ABS-CBN] was where they make stars. I thought it would be a good idea to make Lee a star. Because Romeo Lee is very well known in the underground scene. So, why not make him into a star? He's not just any cardboard cutout celebrity. He's sort of the real deal. And that's how I got involved in the Philippine art community."

Cultivating this grassroots authenticity energized Ocampo. This then bled into one of Ocampo’s most significant local curatorial projects, the Bastards of Misrepresentation exhibition cycle. Initiated by the artist, it provided a platform to highlight variations of explorations of cultural misrepresentations and the idea of "illegitimacy" in art. It confronted the often-exoticized perceptions of Filipino art in the West.

Ocampo himself participated, along with a band of outsiders that included Yason Banal, Poklong Anading, Louie Cordero, Bea Camacho, Jayson Oliveria, Robert Langenegger, Pow Martinez, MM Yu, Lena Cobangbang, Argie Bandoy, David Griggs, Jeona Zoleta, Gaston Damag, and, of course, Lee, among others. It was first presented in Manila and later traveled to venues in Bangkok, New York, Berlin, and various parts of Europe.

"I did [the series] because a lot of Filipino artists were getting attention in the auction houses. I felt that there was more to just the 'Asian aesthetic,'" he says of the exhibition series. "I would approach alternative museums to exhibit there. It was all grassroots-organized artists with fundraising that made it happen: for the catalogs to get published, for the shipment of works, and for us to be present in the exhibition."
He looks back on those days quite fondly now: "It was quite an experience. It felt empowering since we didn't rely on corporations to back us up or give us financial support. We did it all on our own."

These days, he consults (for free) on the programming for the galleries that his wife, Osie Tiango, co-owns with Yo Garcia: Pablo and Post in Cubao Expo and Bonifacio Global City. But it’s more fitting to call Ocampo an art organizer than a curator, he emphasizes. "It's hard. Because I pick from my gut instinct. I think I work with artists on the fringe. It depends on the artist; the crazier the work looks, the better for me. So I try to pick artists who have that 'fringe look.'"

Ocampo himself is constantly reinventing his approach, even today, discovering innovative techniques to engage with new mediums. In 2019, for instance, he explored lithography, screenprinting, collagraphy, etching, and collage in an artist residency with Singapore's STPI – Creative Workshop & Gallery.

Manuel Ocampo's 'Ideological Mash-Up/Remix' for ArtFairPH/Projects, supported by STPI – Creative Workshop & Gallery

It was an interesting period of experimentation for Ocampo, producing works like "Virtue Signaling On The Bully Pulpit series" and "If All You Are Is A Nail Then Everything Looks Like A Hammer Version 1." The pieces will actually be on view for the project Ideological Mash-Up/Remix at Art Fair Philippines 2025, where Ocampo is a featured artist.

"That's the only thing you can do… I think, in this day and age, we're talking about digital dictatorships. We need to be off the grid."

Manuel Ocampo shuffles between Pasig and Bataan, where his studio is located.

PHOTO: MM Yu

Death of criticism, new dictatorships, and random musings

The role of criticism is greatly diminished, and anyone conscious enough knows this, including Ocampo. "Art criticism has died, really, because of social media," Ocampo mutters. "It's like you can't monetize a bad review. In the age of social media, you monetize likes, not dislikes. Although, I guess if you're media savvy, you can take advantage of bad criticism."

Genuine critique in art, media, and government, as I echo thoughts borrowed from Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? (2009), died because of the pervasive dominance of neoliberal capitalism. It has become so ingrained in society because this brand of capitalism neutralizes dissent, offering itself as the only “viable” system.

Art was once a refuge of political and aesthetic resistance. Now, it’s co-opted by capitalist logic. There was a time when movements once challenged authority. They’ve since been reduced to ironic detachment, repackaged for profit, and assigned commodified rebellion.

We have also replaced reality with social media, a device that claims to foster dissent but thrives on spectacle, outrage, and endless distractions. So, where do artists who crave dialogue go from here? I ask Ocampo this, really, just for the hell of it. I try to frame it against the backdrop of the lack of criticism within Filipino culture itself.

"There was a poll once saying that Filipinos are the most emotional people on the planet. So, I think we're too sensitive to accept criticism. I don't know. Maybe it might take a couple more generations before we can accept something like constructive criticism or having a real critique in the arts," he says. Well, we are relatively new to independence, if you think about it.

The lack of dissent in the world today has led to this dehumanizing cultural and political upheaval we face, all this violence and humiliation trivialized by the day, coupled with the empty satisfaction and alienation fostered through our screens. We can only cope. But hey, dialogue is a refuge, I’d like to believe, even if it’s as fragmented and incoherent and as narratively nonsensical as this part of the feature story.

"The only way artists can cope with the things that are happening right now is to just make art. That's the only thing you can do… I think, in this day and age, we're talking about digital dictatorships. We need to be off the grid,” he stresses. “And maybe painting gives you that tool to be off the grid. Pinta ka na lang. Huwag ka nang mag-social media. But then, you want to share your painting with the rest of the world? So you must resist that and just paint."

"Maybe... painting as a form of resistance?" Ocampo posits. "I don't have any... prescriptions for artists. You do what you can. You try to be aware. But in the end, you're still a slave to the market."

Story: Bryle B. Suralta
Production: Christa I. De La Cruz
Editor-in-Chief: Paul John Caña
Creative Direction: Igi Talao
Photography: MM Yu
Video: Yanie Cruz, Richford Unciano, Micah Moleño, and Mig Mabanta
Makeup: Lilian Yeung

Errata (February 17, 2025): This article has been edited to correct the list of artists who participated in the Bastards of Misrepresentation; as well as the examples of artist-run galleries.

Manuel Ocampo and the Carnival of Monsters

Esquire Philippines' February 2025 Cover:

Manuel Ocampo

The gospel, according to the tricksters

The art market as a necessary evil

What becomes of the anti-heroes

Death of criticism, new dictatorships, and random musings