The Little Sunset House

 

In my youth, I take pride in saying that I once lived in a humble, downtrodden house much like this one. It wasn’t the most comfortable shelter, especially during typhoon season when the wind and rain battered its fragile walls, but in the sweltering heat of summer, it offered a kind of comfort no modern structure could provide.  There was a natural coolness, and a simplicity that embraced you.

I vividly remember the little nipa hut where my family lived. Around it stretched a wide vegetable garden that nourished us not only with food but with joy. We grew fruit-bearing trees that now feel almost mythical, for I hardly see them anymore: camachiles with their twisted pods, kasoy trees with their dangling nuts, and makopas with their blushing, bell-shaped fruits. Back then, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, life in the barrio was not defined by wealth or ambition. Contentment was enough. If you accepted the rhythms of nature and the modest life it provided, you felt complete.

But that kind of contentment was fleeting. Slowly, what we once cherished as home began to vanish under the march of what we now call “technological advancement.” The lush gardens gave way to cement and concrete. The trees were cut down, the fruits disappeared, and even the nipa huts, once the very symbol of rural life, were replaced by electric poles, sprawling buildings, and cramped shanties. Progress arrived, but it was progress that demanded a price; the destruction of what was simple, natural, and beautiful. And sometimes, I wonder if what we lost was worth what we gained.

The Little Sunset House
Digital Art on Printed Matte,
12"x12", framed with glass
Priced @ ₱4000