I came to ALT ART as a member of the viewing public and as a printmaker and curator. These were roles that inevitably shaped how I viewed the fourth edition of ALT, held last February 13-15 at SMX Convention Center Manila. The venue distinguished itself by designing spaces that allowed works to be observed at a slower pace, and it is from this unhurried looking that I noticed the works that stayed with me.
I usually leave exhibitions with photographs. This time, I chose stamps. As a printmaker, the logic felt right: a stamp is a matrix, something hand-carved that transfers an impression—and these are works that left one on me. They are a tangible remembrance, but also a way of thinking through why certain pieces stayed.
In this essay, I gather works that reflect a clear intent in how they occupy space in relation to material and form. They were not necessarily the largest pieces in the room, but were ones that quietly demanded a closer look and a more personal engagement.
My first encounter of Kris Ardeña’s ongoing series of "Ghost Paintings" was in his solo exhibition Seiches (2026) at Artinformal. I had the opportunity to speak with him at length about the series. Ardeña is acutely aware of how the works might initially be read—even dismissed—as gimmicky. “It’s interesting how the work is placed on the wall as opposed to letting it stand on its own,” he noted, emphasizing how the display fundamentally shapes perception and interpretation of the work.
His “Ghost Painting” series serves as an homage to our long history of realist painting. Instead of rendering them on canvas, Ardeña paints directly onto existing objects, collapsing the distinction between depicted image and physical form. The result hovers between painting and sculpture, image and thing.
Ardeña observes that public conversations around the series locally have yet to fully articulate this tension. In contrast, audiences who saw his works at Taipei Dangdai engaged with these at a different level of critical language, responding more readily to the conceptual pivot the series proposes.
This installation flips the script by positioning the artist as collector. In her photo-based practice, MM Yu turns her lens toward the very ecosystem that sustains art production: artists and collectors. The work assembles portraits gathered across art events, reframing documentation as accumulation.
One of the collectors whose image appears in the installation mentioned that some of the photographs date back to several years. Yu herself shared that she had to update the series, returning to another major art event to photograph more artists and collectors to further populate the piece. The installation, then, remains active—contingent on continued participation of actors that comprise the art circuit
Yet however enticing and appealing it may be, the concept of “Re-collected” is, ironically, not for sale. In my conversation with the artist, Yu admitted that she is still considering how the project might move forward commercially, if at all. As a printmaker, I cannot help but think about the possibilities of unique editions—how photographs, as printed matter, occupy a porous space between singular artwork and reproducible objects. The work sits precisely within that tension.
Cao’s “Amphibian Palm” was first exhibited in her 2021 solo show, staged just as audiences were cautiously emerging from strict community quarantines due to the pandemic. At that time, visiting galleries had not yet resumed ease as a weekend ritual. The work existed in a moment of hesitation.
At ALT, I recognized the familiar ponkan net wrappers suspended underwater, recalling her conceptual piece, “A Song Plays from Another Room (Book of Fruit).” Cao explored books through their other possible forms and materials, including a waterproof book; in this iteration, she automated the flipping of its pages through the force of water jets. Here, the exhibition space itself was an active component of the work, allowing movement, sound, and their circulation to shape the way audiences perceived the entire installation.
Reintroducing reworked pieces to a new audience is never incidental; it is a deliberate artistic decision. In Cao’s case, the change in environment altered how the work was read: its material gestures, its engagement with automation, even its subtle references to technological mediation resonated differently at a moment when conversations around Artificial Intelligence and machine agency have become more pronounced.
In a big presentation such as ALT ART, a hyperrealist sculpture risks tipping into spectacle. Its technical precision—the sweat-sheened skin, visible pores, intricate detailed tattoos—immediately commanded attention.
There were moments when I caught guests edging closer, their faces and fingers inches away from this piece. Their fascination emboldened them to test the surface with their fingers. Hyperrealism produces that impulse—when a sculpture looks convincingly alive, the body wants confirmation. Is it soft? Is it warm? Is it real? The urge to touch becomes almost involuntary.
Personally, the gesture unsettled me out of instinct—a protective reflex toward both the work and the viewer. The sculpture’s power lies in its tension: it simulates intimacy while insisting on separation. To touch it would collapse that tension. In a fair-like environment, where proximity often signals access and transaction, the refusal of touch becomes significant. The work asked viewers to confront their own impulse to consume—visually, physically—and to restrain it.
In that restraint, something shifted. The distance was not cold; it was charged.
The piece depicts a scene familiar in many Filipino households: a father at the end of a long day’s work, beer in hand. Perched on his head is a taxidermied bird. Here, the preserved body becomes a vehicle mode for materializing themes such as intangible concerns—faith, fatigue, and mortality. Although the work is part of his solo exhibition Happy Birthday (2026) at Artinformal, its inclusion to a wider venue and program opens it to a broader audience, and to new readings particularly from viewers who may not typically enter the gallery space.
ALT even as a collective presentation is not exempt from the discourse of access. A Php 500 ticket is a conscious spend. Hence, any conversation about alternative platforms must also acknowledge who gets to participate in them.
ALT ART, rebranded from its previous name ALT Philippines, remains embedded within the economics of the art fair model. However, its design made a compelling argument: it was structured more as a presentation than a marketplace.
The presentation resisted the dense, wall-to-wall saturation typical of fairs. Instead, it demonstrated that fairs can reconsider not only what is shown, but how it is shown—and in doing so, it offered the possibility of shaping how audiences look, linger, and think about art. The lines blurred further knowing that the nine participating galleries, now operating as ALT Collective, were once regular fixtures of Art Fair Philippines. ALT is not outside the system; it is in conversation with it.